


The Whole Damned World Seemed Upside Down

by WyvernQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (But Maybe Not In The Ways That Count), (Crowley Is Not Okay With That), (Crowley's Fiiiiiiiiiiine), (Death Is REALLY Not Okay With That), (On the Way to Tadfield), (trust me), Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley in Opposite-World, Death Adopts a Cat, Death Is Very Nice Actually, Everybody Is Different, F/M, Footnotes, Good Omens Big Bang, Happy Ending Really I Promise, Humor, Illustrations, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Just A Wild Ride Overall, Libraries, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Really Character Death, Notziraphale Actually Sells Books, Notziraphale Is A Bit Of A Bastard, Other, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Some Warlock&Nanny Fluff, The Horsepersons Are Peace & Plenty & Purity Now, Vaguely Inspired by Discworld!Death, With Apologies To Bob Ross, apocalypse 2.0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 102,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: "I just wish things were different," Crowley says... and the universe happily obliges.Stuck - perhaps forever - in a reality in which Shadwell is the first Wiccan MP, Pepper's only aspiration in life is to be a dutiful wife to someone, and his beloved Bentley is a rusty VW bus, Crowley is slowly learning that "different" doesn't necessarily meanbetter...But how long can he bear to live* in a world where Aziraphale hates him?*Not that he has any other option. The Death of this world can't see blood...
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Brian & Pepper & Wensleydale & Adam Young (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Death & Famine & Pollution & War (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 542
Kudos: 537
Collections: Amazing Good Omens, Good Omens (Complete works), Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. I Sometimes Wish I'd Never Been Born At All

**Author's Note:**

> At last, Big Bang posting time!!!
> 
> First of all, a huge thank you to this beautiful fandom, and the other Bang participants - especially my friends in the discord server. You are all amazing, and made my first fandom event a wonderful experience I wouldn't miss for the world.
> 
> Secondly, thank you to my artist, Pokeslash109, whose art will be in a later chapter; and Hys, who sadly dropped out, but did send me a gorgeous sketch of the opposite-Horsepeople I totally cried over; and my lovely beta Mixermix907.
> 
> Thirdly and finally... please enjoy! ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with art by the wonderful [Ryoukon!](https://www.instagram.com/scila_e_kanon/?hl=pt-br)

_A gentle warning to you, dear Esteemed Reader._

_You may, one day, be tempted to make a wish._

_(That's quite alright. It's only natural to want, and to voice that want, don't feel bad.)_

_But this wish will be a dangerous one. A great, big, existential one._

_A wish for it all to be… different. For your life to be another than your own, or even simply not be at all. A wish that would change everything._

_Do not make that wish._

_Because, trust us, it's no fun to be It's-A-Wonderful-Life'd. In fact, that sort of guardian angel intervention has awfully low success rates, and the Esteemed Colleague Clarence is a statistical outlier that ought not be taken into account._

_Instead, take stock of what you have and do not have. Think about what you can change, and where you can find help for that which you can't._

_Remember the people who love you, in whichever way they do, and the ones you love in turn._

_Continue, help, be helped, improve, fight._

_And do not make that wish._

_Because different? Different_ does not _mean better._

_Crowley can vouch for that._

It's very important to start a story right, you know.

The Esteemed Reader will surely understand that the entry point of any tale needs to be chosen with care, both in location and time and dramatis personae, perhaps with a nice metaphor to establish early and set the tone for it all.

It's a frightfully complicated business, starting a story; a bit like flying an aeroplane. You always manage to land eventually, one way or another, and if it's just a scribbled "the end" when you grow bored. Taking off, now, that's another matter.

So, we are going to choose with care - only the best for you, dear Reader - and start at the obvious point:

The beginning.

Our tale just so happens to begin with the twelfth anniversary of the day the Antichrist came unto earth in a darkened graveyard, and a demon delivered - not delivered-delivered, the demon in question was more than a little squeamish and _could never_ \- him to his destiny.*

*The wrong destiny, as it turned out; but that had really been the damn nun's fault, and ultimately it had all been for the best, anyway.

Or at least the next day's very early morning hours, that strange time after midnight that still feels like yesterday and yet isn't, with the twelfth chime of an old grandfather clock still hanging in the air.

(What, Esteemed Reader, did you think we meant the Beginning-beginning? Eden, the Creation of Man?

Oh no, no, who has time for that these days! One needs to streamline one's narration, mustn't one, if one intends to finish by one's final posting date - which one does, and hopefully will.

So, for the _Beginning,_ we ask you to refer to the account of the Esteemed Sirs Gaiman and Pratchett, who have chronicled the happenings since most diligently, and let _us_ begin over 6000 years later.)

And in a bookshop in Soho, a demon finally removed the cork from a bottle of frankfully indecently expensive champagne* and poured an angel a glass.

*This was the kind of champagne that looked down on common liquors, and was quietly appalled at the thought of one day being drunk by beings who had _not_ matured in a dark cellar for a few decades.

"I'd… I'd like to m-make a, a toassst." The demon - whose name, incidentally, was Crowley - hiss-slurred in a way that indicated that the bottle of snotty champagne was by no means the first alcoholic refreshment of the evening, and likely wasn't going to be the last.

"I've scones in t'kitchen." The angel - Aziraphale, the Reader is surely aware - offered.

"No, no, angel, no." Crowley shook his head, gesturing impatiently with his champagne.* "Drink-toassst. No', not eat-toasst."

*A few drops splashed onto the ground, soaking into the carpet. The champagne shuddered.

"Ah. C-carry on >hic< then, dear boy."

"A toassst to… to…" Crowley frowned, glass raised, pausing until an idea sparked in his eyes. "T'another year!"

"Another year!" Aziraphale beamed, enthusiastically clinking their glasses together. "One m-more than we ever thought we'd get!"

They both drank, hardly taking in the flavour.

(The poor champagne wept in shame, and wished it had been distilled a cheap prosecco.)

"Oh, isnit _wonnerful,_ dear boy?" Aziraphale topped their glasses up, still very nearly incandescent with happiness. It was a little like looking into the centre of the sun, and Crowley contemplated taking his shades out for eye protection. "One year since, since, t'birthday an' t'helliehound, and we're still…"

The blissful smile of the carefree inebriated. Crowley _ngk_ -ed quietly, and hurriedly sipped his champagne.

"... _free,_ m'dear. We're free."

"Yeah." Crowley agreed. "Sss'grand. Good year. Been a bloody good year."

They sat in silence, but it was a nice, comfortably drunk silence.

"Did, did, did you know, Madame what's-her-Tracy, she called." Aziraphale burst out, apropos of nothing. "Wanted t'get t'gether, Adam's birthday, Apocanniversary, or, or sumthing."

"Bah." Crowley said.

"Agreed." Aziraphale nodded firmly.*

*As fond as they both were of humanity as a whole, they'd long since found it wouldn't do to get too attached to any one individual of these impermanent, painfully-fragile little things.

It was self-preservation, simple as that.

More comfy silence.

"Feels like I ssshould toast more." Crowley mused. "Like, like for that holiday. Y'know t'one. Silly human one, glorifyin' pointless killin'."

"Oh, _Easter."_ Aziraphale nodded sagely.

"No- I mean, _yeah._ Yeah, kinda. But s'not what I meant."

"Guy Fawkes day?"

"Nahhhh. They have it in 'merica."

"Independence Day…?"

"Thanksgivin'!"

Aziraphale frowned. "Does tha' glorify-"

"No' to t'pilgrims, no. But to t'native 'mericansss? Yeah it does, angel."

"Ah. 'Course."*

*Ashamed as he was of it, Aziraphale's assimilation into British culture had come with more than merely a fondness for tweed fabrics; and a blindness on one eye to the horrors of colonialism was one of the worse aspects he'd adapted.

Luckily, Crowley obligingly called him out on it regularly, and Aziraphale was working on it.

"Ananyway!" Crowley continued. "M'grateful for… for gettin' more. This last year. Y'know?"

A soft glow in Aziraphale's eyes confirmed that yes, h'know.

(Oh, Crowley could drown in those eyes sometimes. Become a plant, live of the light shining in them and the water-blue of their irises. What a pleasant existence that might be.)

"M'grateful for… 'nother year of alcohol, for a sssstart."

"For lettin' me read more books." Aziraphale added. "Havin' more crêpes."

"Bentley!" Crowley said, and felt like no elaboration was required.

They drank again.

The silence dragged on the longest yet. It was a little strange, to celebrate a day that didn't stand out to most of the population in the least, and had yet been instrumental in ensuring their survival.

A bit like cheering for New Year's, and finding the rest of the world hadn't even looked at their calendar today. They all had reason to get horrifically smashed and kiss at midnight, and yet nobody was doing it.

It was almost a bit lonely.

"I. I am. Very grateful." Aziraphale suddenly began, enunciating carefully. "For… for you, Crowley, m'dear boy."

He smiled, all warmth and affection, and Crowley's heart skipped a beat in his chest.

They had been building towards something, this past year, Crowley had been able to tell. Growing more comfortable with each other, sharing more of their interests, finally unafraid to be seen in public together. He'd known this day would come, and…

And here it was.

Crowley wetted his lips.

Leaned a little towards Aziraphale.

(Mentally did a little happy jig.)

"An' for our _friendship!"_ Aziraphale said brightly, and Crowley made a sound as if that word had personally kicked him in some very sensitive places.

"Friendsh- yeah. Yeah. 'Course. Nnnnngk." He stammered, mentally berating himself for his foolishness. "Our p-perfectly platonic friendssship. Yeah. That."

_We aren't like that._ Crowley repeated it over and over. _Aziraphale doesn't want that._

Sometimes, he thought that might change, one day - hope springs eternal, and Aziraphale had never outright _refused_ him, technically - but not yet. Definitely not yet.*

*Probably not for another 6000 years, but Crowley had high hopes for 9000 AD.

Aziraphale only hummed happily, by now tilting slightly to the left in his comfy chair, and left Crowley to transition from happy-philosophic drunk to lovelorn-maudlin drunk in peace.

(It was nothing new, really.

This was how most of their drinking nights ended, in truth, even if Crowley took great pains to hide this fact from Aziraphale.)

* * *

Not much later - they had finished the champagne, and Aziraphale's eyes had stopped focusing on things - Crowley made his way home.*

*Walking, since he didn't trust himself to drive, and he knew the Bentley would find its own way home, obligingly waiting at the curb in the morning, as always.

He stumbled, leaning heavily against a lamppost.

A passerby eyed him disapprovingly, and Crowley shot her a weak grin and a very rude gesture.*

*Being quite impressed with human ingenuity in the matter of insulting people, Crowley had introduced the two-appendaged - not everybody had fingers in Hell - salute to demons, and Beelzebub never greeted zir underlings in any other way.

Dazedly, he gazed up at the night sky, wavering behind the thin sheen of alcohol.

It was a lovely evening. If one squinted, one might even mistake the lights on the air traffic from and to Heathrow for stars.

Crowley slid halfway down the pole, eyes focusing and unfocusing, looking past the clouds and the light pollution and into the vastness of space.

Aziraphale shone brighter than any star, the incorrigible romantic - and the vast quantities of alcohol - in Crowley mused.

But he was just as unreachable. The other end of the galaxy, or on the sofa beside him, Crowley couldn't touch. Couldn't have.

"Ssssss'unfair." Crowley told the empty sky and the airplanes. "S'unfair, God. Why d'you... d'you put him there, right'n'front of me, if I can't... I can't... he's no' mine. Never will be. _Friendship,_ bloody friend- why... why you're bein' ssso cruel?"

Crowley hiccuped miserably.

"I love him, and he'ssss never... never gonna......"

He groaned in frustration.

"Why couldn't you make it diff'rent? I..."

Crowley pushed himself up. Tilted his head way back one last time, and gazed up, up, up, into the universe.

"God, you lissstenin'? I... I wish you'd done it different. Wish it wassss..... was different."

He fell silent. Waited for an answer.

"Amen!" A beggar women at the corner croaked.

"Amen." Crowley agreed solemnly, fished through his pockets for a twelver - it wasn't counterfeit money for as long as Crowley _believed_ it wasn't - handed it to her, and continued his stumble home.

  
  


The beggar woman watched him go with the strangest glimmer in her eyes.*

*If you looked, really looked, it seemed as if, despite the light pollution overhead, you could see all the stars of the universe reflected in them...

  
  


* * *

Now, the Esteemed Reader will surely be familiar with the sentiment of being careful what one wishes for, especially when one happens to do the prayer equivalent of drunk texting in the middle of the street.

They may mentally liken this to observing a train very, very gently veer off its tracks, overbalancing just so, and then, in a beautiful, graceful arc, sail through the air and crash and burn magnificently.

We can assure the Esteemed Reader that they're being unnecessarily dramatic, and this metaphor is entirely unfitting; it's more like the train getting maudlin, imbibing copious amounts of fruity cocktails, and then asking the Great Train Station Above to just make it explode right there on the tracks, really.

  
  
  


Crowley, entirely unaware of the catastrophic metaphor currently associated with him, woke up feeling as if something small had crawled into his head, dug its claws in, and subsequently decomposed there.*

*Yes, Crowley unfortunately had a basis of comparison. He'd learnt not to take naps in Hell the hard way.

He groaned, considering for a moment to fight his way out of his blanket, but then thinking better of it. His flat had floor-to-ceiling windows with no curtains to go with them, which was understandably quite unfortunate in hangover situations.

(His trademark style being at odds with sunlight was a constant curse upon Crowley's life, especially when it was 30°C in the shade and he was fully committed to the kind of outfit that a vampire might consider depressingly monochrome.)

Wrapped up in his blanket in a very undignified manner, Crowley would like you to think he sauntered casually to his living room.

This was not the case. The Esteemed Reader should know that he crawled/slithered all the way, with a brief halfway-upright position when he stopped at the fridge to grab special mouse-flavoured cereal* to eat straight from the carton.

*"Squeaky-Crunch: the no. 1 breakfast for the discerning snake", made with gourmet mouse substitute (does not contain real mouse, or, indeed, anything resembling food, trademarked by the CHOW company) and featuring a picture of Kaa the snake on the front of the box.

Flopping pathetically onto the couch, Crowley turned on the telly with a wave of his hand - remotes were for other people - and resolved to stay put and watch mindless comfort TV until such time that he could have coherent thoughts without a headache splitting his skull into little bits.

There was only one single item on Crowley's Netflix queue, which stubbornly stayed there even though he had finished watching it multiple times now; the one constant of his existence he returned to every time he felt miserable, hungover, and tragically Aziraphale-less.

Crowley waved to put on _Golden Girls,_ and reached into the box for a handful of Squeaky-Crunch.

Hand halfway to his mouth, Crowley had the strangest sensation.

Like...

Like something was... not wrong, no, but strange.

Different.

The intro was still going, "Screw You For Being A Dolt" crooned gently over little scenes of elderly gentlemen getting up to shenanigans together.

Crowley rubbed his eyes. And his ears, for good measure.

He went back to his queue, but the only item on it was and remained "Bronze Boys", an American sitcom featuring Dorian, Rory and Blaise, as well as Dorian's father Simon, living out the autumn years of their lives in Nebraska.

Crowley, deciding wearily to accept the gift horse without inspecting its mouth area too closely, put the show back on and nibbled on Crunchy-Squeak bits, which tasted far more nutritious than he remembered them.

It took Crowley's brain two-and-a-half episodes' worth of rebooting to finally start questioning these highly suspicious circumstances, and three to actually do something about it*

*Look, it had been an engaging episode, alright!?

He checked the cereal.

"Nutri-fun?" Crowley squinted at the box, which now featured a perky young jogger looking almost disgustingly healthy.* "Blegh."

*It was still produced by the CHOW company, and most of the back was taken up by a long list of nutrients and a recommendation from a Dr. Sable in regards to which fruits to eat with the cereal for a truly healthy breakfast.

"Okay." Crowley muttered to himself. "Okay. Strange food in my flat. Strange show on my telly. Okay. This is fine."

It was not fine.

It was really, really not fine.

Crowley fought his way out of his blanket, and was halfway off the couch when he recalled he owned no couch, and especially not this ratty thing.

The walls were still old concrete, but full of craters and cracks, and Crowley's usually near-sterile and empty flat was cluttered; and not the book shop's comfortable clutter, but the messy type that you just knew indicated an unwillingness to clean rather than a compulsive need to own every misprint bible this side of Gutenberg.

Crowley very briefly entertained the thought that he, in his drunkenness, had stumbled into the wrong flat.

Except... except that couldn't be, couldn't possibly be, because the bare bones were still the same. The layout, the view out of those same floor-to-ceiling windows Crowley's lingering headache cursed, the plant roo-

"Oh, bloody Hell," Crowley groaned; which was incidentally also a rather accurate (and perhaps even nice) way to sum up what Crowley could swear ought to be a space filled with houseplants, but was evidently nothing of the sorts.

Whoever lived here - and Crowley still wasn't sure if that was truly himself - was clearly devoting a lot of attention to art.

Now, the Esteemed Reader might like to know that there are, broadly speaking, three distinct types of art, the way we see it.

Art that aims to make you happy; art that aims to make you think; and art that aims to make you sad.*

*There are, naturally, in-between forms, and we invite you to take happy and sad as broad terms; however, we must needs simplify for convenience's sake, and hope the Esteemed Art Students forgive us.

Crowley discovered a fourth type of art in the former plant room.

It was art that actually, physically hurt to look at, it was so horrifying, so blood-soaked, so downright disturbing; all flames and cruelty and death.

So, so much death.*

*And one (1) Mona Lisa original sketch, though she was wearing an ugly, disgruntled frown in it.

Crowley's entire body rebelled at the sight, but especially his stomach, which turned quite forcefully and was only prevented from expelling its contents through a quick miracle.

This wasn't Crowley's flat.

(Lord Lucifer Below, it couldn't be.)

Only, it inexplicably _felt_ like Crowley's flat; imbued with the sort of aura you only got surrounding a demon's permanent residence, a hint of smoke and mould and general disgruntlement with existence at large and God specifically, and if Crowley had bothered to check the dust bunnies in the corners, he would have found them to be mostly composed of shed scales.*

*Therefore more aptly named a dust snekky.

Crowley staggered away from the room-formerly-known-as-one-containing-plants, sat himself down on the horrid rug that probably qualified as a biohazard, and tried to get his breathing under control.

He remembered he didn't actually need to breathe, and promptly stopped.

Think, Crowley, think. Reality getting less real by the second, creepy art in your plant room, WWJBD?*

*Standing, of course, for What Would James Bond Do, a mode Crowley defaulted to in emergency situations.

(Nine times out of ten, he just plain panicked first, but after that the pretense of being a Smooth Spy served Crowley well.)

Probably order a martini (shaken, not stirred) and make advances on a love interest with a ridiculous name.

Speaking of...

Crowley crawled over to the phone, and dialed Aziraphale's number.

(He decided to forego the martini, he felt shaken enough as is.)

A moment of crackling silence. A click.

"Azira-" Crowley began.

"The number you are attempting to reach has blocked you," a pleasant yet undoubtedly computer-generated voice informed him.

And then, still somewhat conversational in an AI kind of way: "Sod off."*

*This was, incidentally, not the first time Crowley was insulted by a computer. He and Z1 had gotten off to a terrible start back in the 30s, and to this day Crowley knew how to say "your mother was a pocket calculator" in binary, which had finally shut the damn thing up - though not before it managed to imply that Crowley was very poorly endowed, and suffered from a colourful variety of skin diseases, the worst being that he had skin at all, rather than a much superior metal casing.

(He'd gotten along much better with later forms of technology, though there were still times Crowley felt like a desktop was looking at him funny.)

Shit, Crowley thought.

"Shit." Crowley said.

"SHIT!"* Crowley exclaimed at a frankly unreasonable volume, and put the receiver back into its cradle.

*We apologise for Crowley's choice of words, but the Esteemed Reader will surely agree it is entirely justified, and a wide array of harsher words might be equally serviceable.

Something was wrong, unquestionably and entirely wrong, and it wasn't even that Aziraphale would ever block his number, because he _would,_ Crowley's favourite angel was a bit of a bastard sometimes and fond of icy silences delivered on cold shoulders.

No, it was the fact that the blocking had been possible at all. Aziraphale's ancient rotator phone wouldn't be capable of blocking an ant if placed in its way, much less an incoming call, and he would NEVER upgrade.*

*Satan knows Crowley had tried, and was still trying every decade or so; but the increasingly functional (and expensive) devices invariably ended up discreetly donated to someone in the neighbourhood, the old phone back in its place even though Crowley had been 100% certain nothing would ever be able to retrieve it from the very bottom of the Mariana Trench.

(Without so much as a single spot of water damage, too.)

Aziraphale being up-to-date with technology was more foreboding than the pigsty that Crowley's flat had become, including the Hellish art.

Something had to be fundamentally wrong with the universe on an existential level, and Crowley feared the worst.

The telly was still on, and Crowley waved at it impatiently to flick through the channels until he found news-

Crowley paused.

Made a rewinding motion with his wrist to return to the last channel.

"Now, I hope you don't mind me saying," Gordon Ramsay gently murmured, "except, pardon my crass language, but this lemon soup simply isn't quite as good as it could be, my deepest apologies for being so blunt; let's see how we can improve on it together, shall we?"

"What the Ever-Hating Devil." Crowley said tonelessly.

He changed the channel.

"I MADE A FUCKING MISTAKE WITH THIS STUPID LITTLE TREE!" Bob Ross roared, and threw his palette to the floor. "HOW COULD I BE SUCH A FUCKING CLUMSY DUMBASS!? IT'S BAD ART NOW! BAD ART! I NEED TO DRAW FUCKING BETTER, FUCK!"

(The Esteemed Reader is surely slowly realising that something quite majorly worrying is afoot; what they are observing is the smoke of a train wreck in the distance, and Crowley was beginning to feel the flames.)

"No. This isn't how- no."

The history channel.

"Dishonest Abe, the most hated President of the United States, was finally removed from office on the 15th of April, 1865 for the murder of beloved actor and perfectly innocent person, John Wilkes Booth..."

Celebrity gossip.

"The Queen has done it again! What will our cooky, unrestrained royal do next?"

Movies.

"Coming up next: 20-time Oscar winner, and the first part of the critically highly acclaimed Twilight Saga, also known as the most beautiful love story of our age..."

"Blessed Heaven." Crowley murmured, and gave up. The news would likely only confirm his nagging suspicion:

The world was, all of a sudden, horrifyingly, catastrophically, confusingly, other-adverbs-in-the-same-vein-ingly _different._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for setting this whole thing up - updates will be very frequent, final posting date is the 6th. Either I'll be done by then, or I might cheat a little and split the ending off into a second part of a series... wish me luck!
> 
> Please tell me what you think, I love comments! <3  
> I'll do my best to respond, as much as I can while still writing on this behemoth of a fic...
> 
> ^-^ <3 <3 <3


	2. Death On Two Legs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More opposite-world exploration, now featuring Death!  
> And poor Crowley is in for a bit of a special shock...
> 
> (Warning: some vague reference to Death exploring a place he remembers to be a war zone, with all that entails. If you'd prefer not to read that, just skip ahead to the first page break line!)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> AND LOOK AT THE AMAZING ART BY [RYOUKON](https://www.instagram.com/scila_e_kanon/?hl=pt-br) AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER!

Death stood in the midst of what he had been so sure ought to be a bloody civil war, and, for the first time in his endless existence beyond the constraints of time, experienced the sensation of feeling useless - followed immediately by overwhelming confusion.*

*This, Death had experienced before, when God had pulled him aside and explained that yes, She had let Jesus die, but he didn't mind putting him back down on earth in a couple days, did he? It was all Her Plan, no worries, it would all make sense in the end.

(It was still not really making sense to Death, who was quite the skeptic when it came right down to it.)

Only yesterday, the ground beneath his bony feet had been red mud, wet and still warm, and the departed had flocked to him eagerly, weary of the violence and the fear that had ruled their lives.

Now, there were only flowers, and children playing in the streets.

A boy ran past, and, for only moment, glimpsed Death from the corner of his eye.*

*Have you ever seen a shadow in your vision? In the distance, a dark alley, the space between furniture, gone the moment you truly look?

Now, we won't say that it was Death you saw. In fact, it probably wasn't.

But. We'd just like you to know that it might've been.

(And isn't that an even scarier thought?)

The boy paused in his step, glanced back and didn't see a thing..

But Death saw, saw the face of the soul he had collected only yesterday, gazing up at him with bloodshot, tired eyes too old in this young face, and if Death had anything even resembling eyes, he might've blinked in his confusion.

…they didn't _usually_ come back, people.

One or two of them did, now and then, usually religious types, reincarnated every so often, but even those wore different faces, different lives, even slightly different souls.

And yet, here he was.

Alive, well, and very not dead in this very not destroyed town.

Death walked on.

Laughter filtered through the air, rather than the whistling of bullets and dying screams, and Death _didn't understand._

He reached out in desperation, and felt for the war he knew, _knew,_ belonged here.

And then, Death was somewhere else (except he'd always been there, and always would be) and beside him…

War. But… not-War. There was a word for that, Death knew, but it escaped him at the moment.

Lots of things did, looking at one of his oldest companions, present since the dawn of humanity, stepping up to his side the moment Cain raised his hand against Abel, and never truly leaving it in over 6000 years.

And _it wasn't her._

She was wearing white for a start; stainless, flawless white without a single drop of blood on it, a white flag trailing from her shoulders like a half-cape, dove feathers replacing where she normally would've worn metal, sharp and lethal.

And none of that was as unsettling as her smile.

War, the Esteemed Reader may well recall, smiled like a knife.

This woman smiled like the olive branches woven into her hair, and Death felt a sense of wrongness in all his bones.

Worse, what she was smiling _at_ appeared to be… appeared…

A document, signed. A representative of the United Nations, smiling brightly and full of relief. People, cheering.

"To peace between our people, my lady." Said a man in military uniform, holding out his hand.

"To peace between our people, _my friend."_ A woman in a sharp suit responded warmly, and took it.

PEACE. Death said softly. _That_ was the opposite of War.

"Yes, Lord?" Not-War turned, and her gaze was calm and soft.

Death fled.

* * *

And so did Crowley, racing out of what only bore marginal resemblance to his flat with his phone pressed to his ear.

"The number you're attempting to reach has blocked you." The computer-generated voice informed him, somewhat less pleasant. "Seriously, get lost. It's getting pathetic."

Now, _that_ hit a little very close to home, so Crowley ended the call with a bitten-off curse.

Aziraphale, he needed to see Aziraphale, talk to him, he needed… he just needed Aziraphale, really.

And wasn't that a constant in his life.

Crowley raced down the stairs,* taking two, three, four at a time, and once fourteen-and-a-half before faceplanting onto the next landing.

*There was an elevator in the building, of course, but, like all elevators - a Hellish invention, naturally - the amount of other floors it had to be on was directly proportional to the urgency with which you pressed the button, meaning it was currently working its way down from the eighteenth floor, never mind that the building stopped at seven.

Down to the foyer, for once not stopped by Mrs Carpenter on the second floor, who stubbornly invited him to tea and a chat about her granddaughters - polite, beautiful, and painfully single - every time he so much as put a foot outside his own flat,* and then out the front and onto the street.

*He'd tried, once, to convince her he was entirely uninterested in girls, but it had only prompted her to suggest her grandson - polite, handsome, not entirely single but who knew what the future held, hmm, Anthony? - instead; so, barring an elaborate and ultimately doomed plan to pass Newt off as his husband - asking Aziraphale would be the height of stupidity - he was simply going to have to leave his flat at least an hour early for appointments.

Crowley pulled his keys from his pocket- or, well, actually, he wasn't entirely sure where he pulled them from, seeing as he sometimes struggled to fit even a thin layer of air molecules into his pockets.* In any case, they hadn't been in his hand before; and now, they were.

*Sometimes, Crowley assessed the snug fit of his trousers, and wondered how exactly he'd gotten into the blasted things in the first place.

Then, he quickly discarded that thought before reality took a good look at the measurements, put two and two together, found it didn't make three, and reacted accordingly.

He scanned the streets and…

...and stopped dead.

Between the small pub at the corner and the next crossing in the other direction, five cars were parked. One rather sad-looking Volvo, two Minis in rather similar - yet clashing - tones of puce, a BMW with a cracked left tail light, and a rather diminutive VW bus.

Crowley wouldn't normally take notice of this at all, if not for the fact that the Bentley _should_ be among these five automobiles, and very obviously _wasn't._

Crowley looked down the street.

Up the street.

Down again, just to make absolutely sure.

No Bentley.

The next curse word he voiced was so incredibly uncouth, parents in a two-mile radius had the sudden urge to wash somebody's mouth out with soap and didn't know why.

"So." Crowley muttered. "It's not enough that my best friend* has blocked my number. It's not enough that my flat is a garbage dump filled with unsettling art, or reality did the equivalent of putting your shirt on the wrong way around, oh no!"

*He was briefly tempted to say "my beloved angel, only person I have ever or will ever love" instead, but when had he ever been one for admitting such things to himself?

He laughed, somewhere caught between bitterness, hysteria, and panic.

"No, they had to go and STEAL MY BLOODY _CAR,_ TOO!" Crowley shouted to the heavens, kicked the side of the closest of the five non-Bentley cars - which just so happened to be the VW bus - and then stalked off with a snarl on his lips.

Whoever was playing this absolutely _marvellous_ prank on him had just made it _personal._ You could restyle a demon's flat, mess with his telly and his phone connection, but touching his car!?

 _That_ had bloody well been one bloody step too bloody far.

Bloody Hell.

He was going to run over to the bookshop, right this minute. And once he had explained the situation to Aziraphale, they were going to fix this together, obviously starting with retrieval of the poor, defenceless, captured Bentley.*

*Rationally, Crowley knew that the Bentley, proper old machine that it was, could take better care of itself than even the most outfitted of Bond cars, keeping a stiff upper bonnet at all times.

Emotionally, however, _his baby needed him,_ which turned out to be a very compelling argument overall.

  
  
  


Now, dear Esteemed Reader, while Crowley is racing off towards Soho, we would like to direct your attention to right over… there.

You see it, don't you? The aforementioned Volkswagen, looking like a bus that had stopped growing halfway through the hippie phase of its puberty, held together by rust, strategically-placed scotch tape, and the graffiti paint sprayed all over it; and equipped with a motor that made odd sounds even when it wasn't driving.

This car- nay, this insult to everything cars like the Bentley stood for, this complete antithesis to its noble, highly-polished bearing…

It stood in the _precise_ parking space that, as far as Crowley knew, had been occupied by the Bentley only a few hours past.

We suggest the Esteemed Reader take good note of this and recall it later; foreshadowing is hard and ungrateful work - the pay happens to be very poor indeed - and the least we can hope for is that it sticks.

* * *

Death stood on the cliffs overlooking the beach, watching the swirl of rainbow sheen at the crest of every lapping wave, and the slick darkness they spat out onto the sand.

Far, far in the distance, he could see the sadly tilting remains of the oil tanker, half-capsized and bleeding black into the water, and closer, down on the beach, humans attacking wildlife with washing implements, the cleaners just as cold and dirty and miserable as the cleaned.

Death did not feel relief, of course.*

*The only emotion Death _could_ feel was best described as "a feeling of being aware of one's own unchangeability in the face of an eternally shifting universe", which humanity obviously had no precise word for.

(However, if so inclined, the Germans might be convinced to come up with "Endlosigkeitsinkongruenzbewusstsein", because never had there been an obscure concept their language couldn't compound its way out of.)

And yet… something about this evidence of Pollution still being fully in their element soothed something tight and uncomfortable in his sternum. War's strange episode had evidently unsettled him more than he would like to admit - that is, to say, at all.

He didn't usually go in for unsettlement.

Death was at the top of the cliff, and then Death was also on the beach, slick oil soaking into the hem of his cloak.

Just to his left, a bedraggled seal balefully peered up at him under long lashes that dripped with oil.

DON'T WORRY. Death told it, and bent down to awkwardly pat its head. I'M NOT HERE FOR YOU.

The seal barked indignantly, and wriggled away from him.

"Lord?" Pollution's voice rang out behind him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Death turned, opened his jaw…

...and left it hanging open in a manner that, on somebody with facial features other than bare bone structure, would look most unattractive.

Just like with War, this was very obviously not Pollution as Death knew them. It couldn't possibly be. Pollution delighted in oil spillage, watched it from afar with a murmur of _how beautiful_ on their lips, and then slipped away to spread more filth across the world.

Pollution did _not,_ definitely NOT, never in a thousand years - and Death knew this for a fact, since he'd known them for more than that - spend their time with bleeding-heart oil-clean-up types, sitting on polluted beaches in a garishly yellow waxed jacket and cleaning a very miffed-looking seagull with a toothbrush.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING. Death said, in the hope he might be misinterpreting the situation with the desperation of a man who had just discovered his spouse in flagranti in bed with his five best friends under a giant sign that read _I am cheating on you, and I don't regret it_ in neon letters, signed by at least three notaries and Honesther McWitnesson, most reliable person on the planet.*

*Who, in a rather surprising turn, had eloped with her nemesis and - apparently - childhood sweetheart Liara Fibbage-Pantsonfire last spring; but that, we suppose, is a story for another time.

"My duty." Not-Pollution ran their toothbrush along the gull's wing, and crystal-clear water dripped from pristine feathers. "What else, Lord?"

Death had the sudden urge to sit down on something. Possibly the seal.

RIGHT. He nodded. RIGHT.

Death knelt down before them.

POLLUTION, DEAR COMPANION, I IMPLORE YOU TO LISTEN TO ME; THIS IS WHAT HUMANS CALL AN INTERVENTION.

He put his hands on their shoulders. LOOK AROUND, THIS ISN'T YOU, OLD FRIEND. RECALL THE BEAUTY OF DECAY, OF STAINS AND DIRT, OF POISON SURGING SO BEAUTIFULLY THROUGH VEINS! REMEMBER YOURSELF, I URGE YOU! SNAP OUT OF THIS MADNESS YOU AND WAR SEEM TO HAVE CONTRACTED, AND-

"You're getting oil on your robes, Lord." Pollution interrupted, frowning. "Are you quite alright…?"

NO. Death said, and if he didn't know better, he'd think he was desperate. NO, POLLUTION, I AM _NOT_ ALRIGHT. YOU KNOW I CAN TAKE A JOKE AS WELL AS ANY OTHER ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION OF A UNIVERSAL CONCEPT, BUT IT SIMPLY ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE! He shook them by the shoulders, almost gently. YOU WERE ALWAYS THE MOST PROMISING OF THEM ALL, POLLUTION, DEAR POLLUTION, MY FAVOURITE, IF I WERE THE TYPE TO FAVOUR. YOU'LL BE THE ONE TO BRING HUMANITY TO THEIR KNEES YET, I KNOW IT; AND THIS, TOO, SHALL PASS. COME TO YOUR SENSES, MY FRIEND.

Death hesitated.

_PLEASE._

They looked at him strangely, a smudge of oil fading on their cheek as he watched.

"I think you may be confused. There's nobody of that name here." They said, very slowly, and deeply concerned, letting go of the now-flawless seagull in favour of holding out their hands the same way one would approach someone frothing at the mouth and gnawing the sleeves of their straitjacket.* "I'm called Purity."

*Not that Death had anything to froth with or from, but it was the sentiment that counted.

PURITY. Death repeated.

"Yes Lord."

_PURITY._

"Indeed."

Death looked at the absolutely horrifying sight of the beach slowly de-oiling in a three-inch radius around not-Pollu- _Purity,_ and the honest worry in their eyes; and something deep within him broke with a sound that was more whimper than shout.

CLEAN THE SEAL NEXT. Death said, and went to be anywhere else but here.

* * *

Crowley stumbled into the bookshop, gasping and panting and desperately trying to keep all of his respiratory system from dissolving - as he rather feared it might - head swimming as if… well, as if he'd just run all the way from his flat to Aziraphale's place without stopping or even the most perfunctory warm-up exercises.*

*It would occur to Crowley exactly three months and twelve-and-a-half days later, in the middle of the night, that he could've just closed his eyes and miraculously teleported himself over without breaking a sweat.

Crowley would curse very loudly into the darkness then, and teleport all over London for the next two weeks, just to prove to himself he could.

"Angel!" He wheezed, hands on his knees, doubled over for fear of hacking up a lung. "A-angel?"

"Oh no, I _insist."_ Said a voice from further inside the shop, and relief flooded Crowley with a force that nearly knocked him to the floor.

 _Aziraphale,_ alive and well and wheedling a customer out of making a purchase; the world could be ending - literally - and as long as Crowley had _that,_ he would be content.

With his field of vision still full of static from the effort of running, Crowley put one hand on the nearest bookshelf, to guide himself closer to Aziraphale and maybe aid him in ripping the customer a new… a new…

...huh. Had the bookshelves always been metal?

Waiting for his exhaustion-blurry vision to clear, Crowley frowned, tapping the tip of his shoe against the floor. Marble? Metal? Plastic? Not the hardwood he was used to, definitely.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly!" The customer was babbling apologetically. "I'll never have time to read all these, anyway, and my budget…"

"Ah, the _budget!"_ A dismissive sound from Aziraphale. "Madame, you clearly want these books, and I, for my part, wish to see the damn things sold. Don't let's allow money to prevent that, shall we?"

Crowley could do a variety of exciting things with his tongue, and the one he did right then was to nearly swallow it whole.

"Oh, but-"

"We'll have no more of that. Consider it a special offer, twelve books for the price of seven."

 _Twelve!_ Aziraphale could describe, in intimate detail, every single book he had sold since opening his shop, and had done so to Crowley on many an occasion. So Crowley knew that he'd only ever voluntarily parted with seventeen books in total, and never two the same decade. Twelve at once was… unimaginable.

"Or, actually…" oh, thank goodness, he was coming to his senses, keeping the books, Crowley had already started to worry-

"Thirteen. I'll make it a baker's dozen."

Crowley felt like he needed to sit down somewhere, and promptly did so on one of those stepping stools that could often be found in bookshops that were actually trying to sell books.*

*Like this one. Apparently.

_Bloody Hell._

He took off his sunglasses and furiously rubbed at his eyes. And then he did so again, when he opened them and the static faded to reveal sleek metal shelves and gaudy plastic signs, advertising discounts above stacks of novels whose only defining characteristics were that they were new and estimated to sell well.

Crowley even thought he'd seen a few volumes of the Shades of Grey series* in one corner, and was quite busy purging the idea from his mind.

*As any demon worth his salt would do, Crowley had taken a professional interest in a publication inspiring so much lust, and read the books front to back.

Then, he'd laughed so hard his sides split - literally, in the case of his pants, which truly were far too tight - and sold it to Hell as another of his roaring successes.

(Aziraphale, as far as Crowley knew, had read them too, deemed the whole thing absolutely terrible BDSM etiquette, and doggedly recommended alternative, far superior bodice rippers to middle-aged ladies who asked after the books - which they could buy somewhere else, thank you and good day.)

He heard Aziraphale ring up the purchases, selling precious books for less than half their worth, chatting amicably - _amicably!_ \- with the customer all the while.

There was even _music_ playing in this shop, obviously tailored to maximise sales, and from this century, too!

Crowley pinched himself.

The nightmare refused to end.

"...and please _do_ come back." Aziraphale concluded, ushering her to the door, pressing a complimentary penguin edition into her hands as they went. "In fact, I would be much obliged if you could direct some of your friends to my shop, I am trying to build a bigger customer base, you see… you will? Oh, splendid, splendid."

The bell above the door rang - an artificial sound system, not the antique little bell Crowley remembered* - and Crowley couldn't bear it any longer.

*There was a story behind that bell, involving a slightly overzealous exorcist, a perfectly innocent child that, for once, had _not_ been a familial relation of Satan's, three geese, and a barrel of tar; but that was hardly relevant. The bell had been a present which Crowley had brought back afterwards, and Aziraphale had promised to cherish it always.

"Angel." He said hoarsely. "What the-"

Aziraphale turned, and…

The Esteemed Reader will surely be familiar with the concept of jumpscares. Of being met with something so horrifying, so startling, so _wrong_ that their entire body simply seizes up in abject terror, refusing to as much as register the image before them, since it is entirely abhorrent to their minds.

It's not unlike an old sci-fi series, brain sparking and fuzzing with thoughts suddenly throwing themselves about one's head as if simulating a spaceship crash, and entirely incapable of productivity for at least a few good minutes.

Crowley, now, Crowley was a demon. A proud denizen of Hell, who quite literally looked Satan in the eye on a daily basis and reacted with nothing more than a semi-polite "how do you do, my Lord of Darkness". He'd taken tea with the Horror of the Pit, and Aziraphale no longer took him along to screenings of horror movies because Crowley laughed too hard at every jumpscare, and it was bothering the other filmgoers.*

*This only went for surprise-based and visual horror, of course. Crowley wouldn't like us to mention it, of course, but we may tell the Esteemed Reader in confidence that he trembled like a leaf in the face of psychological and emotional horror, and couldn't sleep for weeks afterwards.

And yet, at the sight of what Crowley hesitated to call _Aziraphale,_ his brain not so much short-circuited as softlocked, leaving him in a state of shock while his higher brain functions hemmed and hawed at confusing readings and tried a little helplessly to make sense of the data given to them.

The Captain's - yes, we are adapting the sci-fi ship metaphor, do keep up - demand of a status report yielded very little.

Engineering unhelpfully assured that they had the body at large ready for Plan A ("fight"), B ("flight") or C ("scream"), which, while good to know, does not strike one as entirely constructive.

The Visual Officer was scanning and re-scanning the sight before them, entirely baffled.

This was Aziraphale, and yet not quite. Those were Aziraphale's eyes, his stubby-fingered, delicate hands, the generous swell of his midriff; all of which the S.S. Crowley had spent centuries carefully exploring and chronicling in the Captain's log.

But. The details.

Curls carefully styled and slicked back rather than wild and fluffy, those silly glasses nowhere in sight, and a stance that was almost… aggressive. None of it was at all like the Aziraphale Crowley knew.*

*He briefly contemplated the possibility of there being an entirely different angel in Aziraphale's usual corporation, but one squint beyond the physical plane showed Aziraphale's Countless Eyes squinting back from amid the Holy Fire of his being, which, again, Crowley would recognise in his sleep.

Furthermore, the Sartorial Subcommander was sobbing at his console, whispering reverently about how they'd never thought to see the day, and copying the sight of Aziraphale in an honest-to-Someone _stylish suit_ \- from _this century,_ mind! - into the vessel's logs* faster than Crowley could even blink.

*Including a discreet file labelled "boring technical data that is not pornography at all", which mostly consisted of mental images of Aziraphale bending over.

_Captain,_ Ensign Suspicion finally piped up to say, _I have a bad feeling about this._

 _Ya THINK!?_ Crowley shot back.

And then, copious alarms went off inside Crowley's head, and the entire crew was scuttling around in panic, trying to find out which dunce of a thought had voiced something like "at least it can't get any worse".

You see, Aziraphale had a Thing he did, reliably and consistently, whenever he set eyes on Crowley. Said Thing consisted of dropping whatever he was doing, including his current expression, in favour of turning to Crowley and beaming like the sun had risen in his face, frequently combined with a delighted chirping of his name.

Crowley loved that Thing, like he loved All Things Aziraphale, really, but this one especially. No matter what the cruel, careless voice in the back of his head said, Aziraphale _was_ happy to see him, _so there!,_ and that was invaluable.

Crowley often snuck up on Aziraphale just to never miss the moment of The Thing Happening, and even the tiniest, saddest little smile in response to his presence made him feel like he could move mountains.*

*Which he technically could, demonic miracles and all.

Not that he ever had, of course. Those conspiracy theories were just silly, and how would humans even be able to _tell_ if Mt Everest stood about three inches to the left!?

And this just-a-little-off-kilter version of Aziraphale was not doing the Thing.

In fact, when recognition sparked in his eyes, his face did the very _opposite_ of the Thing, twisting from confused-miffed into a furious snarl, baring all his teeth and revealing that this version of Aziraphale had rather more frown lines than laugh lines etched into his skin.

 _"Aziraphale!?"_ Crowley squeaked, mentally ushering his thoughts to the escape pods.

 _"Demon."_ The Aziraphale-adjacent being (?) hissed.

And then, without much ado or further preamble, smote him right out of the shop.

* * *

Death's day had been a most trying one - they weren't, usually, not at all* - and he took this newest horror with all due grace and decorum, instead of slamming his skull against the restaurant wall repeatedly until one or the other caved.

*The last "trying day" had been the 25th of August, 1900, on which he had been tasked with bringing Friedrich Nietzsche before God, and born witness to Her and Nietzsche embroiled in a five-hour screaming match. It hadn't been pretty, and being asked to arbitrate who was and wasn't actually dead between them nothing short of mortifying, no pun intended.

YOU'VE ALL GONE MAD. Death declared, slumping heavily in his seat and glowering at the menu immediately placed in front of him. OR, ALTERNATIVELY, I HAVE. BUT THE OTHER OPTION SEEMS PREFERABLE

"I'm sure it would, Lord." Said the man he rather suspected was not called Famine - he looked far too healthy and content for it - around a mouthful of chicken leg. "Cucumber sandwich?"

Death declined, gesturing vaguely at his midriff in a way that was meant to draw attention to the absence of internal organs of the digestive tract variation quite prominently on display there.

"The bruschetta, then? It's very good, and filling!"

NO THANK YOU. Death said, wondering how he could possibly be giving off the impression of a man who ever had been, currently was, or ever would be, _hungry.*_

*See aforementioned lack of stomach et al.

Not-Famine shrugged, and dug into a steaming pie with abandon. Death suspected he would be feeling nauseous at this point, were he at all capable of it.

The restaurant they were sitting in was a comfy affair, affordable with good food and generous helpings, and a poster by the entrance proclaimed weekly cooking workshops for "healthy, nutritious food" being held here under the guiding hand of Dr Raven Sable.*

*If the Esteemed Reader has any money to spare, we suggest taking the advice at the bottom of the poster and donating to his charity, "Provide Plentifully", which combats world hunger.

Death looked around, saw all the happy, well-fed but not overfed people, and _didn't understand._

IT SEEMS TO ME, he said helplessly, THAT REALITY HAS TAKEN A SHARP LEFT TURN AND FAILED TO NOTIFY ME OF IT. DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN…

He studied not-Famine, and made an educated guess.

...PLENTY?

"Maybe it's low blood sugar?" Dr Sable - Plenty - suggested helpfully, dipping a spoon into the chocolate pudding.

Death contemplated pointing out that he didn't even have blood in the first place, but as little as he had to do with life, it still struck him as too short for such things.

Instead, he gave in and tried the bruschetta.

It was indeed quite good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've met the opposite!Horsepeople! Which is your favourite? ;)  
> And not-quite-Aziraphale. There's no way things can get any worse...
> 
> ...right?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, do leave a kudos or comment! <3
> 
> (Also, I urge you all to read [Panem et Circenses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22290349) by littleblackfox - I drew the art for this one, and it's AMAZING. Aziraphale and Crowley take part in the Great British Bake-off, and if just that premise hasn't convinced you to check it out, I don't know what to tell you.)


	3. Do And I'll Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing two new characters (warnings for this chapter: blasphemy and making fun of religious semi-cult organisations, some gun mentions and usage), and MORE DRAMA!
> 
> Let me just say pre-emptively:  
> I'm really very sorry.
> 
> And with these ominous words: enjoy! ;)
> 
> EDIT: Now with more of [Ryoukon's](https://www.instagram.com/scila_e_kanon/?hl=pt-br) breathtaking art!!! They're really capturing the characters so well, I have no words.

Crowley came to at the waterfront in St James's, a duck trying to make off with his sunglasses and every cell in his body aching, which was honestly quite impressive. The average smiting would've thrown him no further than the end of the street, Aziraphale must've been really… really….

"Oh, bollocks." Crowley muttered to himself, and buried his head in his hands. He felt like any number of things ranging from sobbing pathetically to screaming furiously at God, and just generally like having a bit of a crisis.

But the humans in the park* were already staring, and he had no desire to end up on national television.

*At this relatively early hour of the morning - on a weekday - the park was mostly overrun by elderly people that complained about anything under the age of 50 and were constantly swamped by birds eager for crusts of week-old bread.

Furthermore, there were three lads in school uniform obviously bunking off - also the targets of most of the old people's ire - a young woman walking a ball of fur probably meant to be a dog, and two religious enthusiasts attempting to spread their particular interpretation of the Good Book with middling success.

Again.*

*Aziraphale still had tapes of a news segment featuring a very perturbed snake trying to discreetly slither its way out from underneath a foreign dignitaries chair without aggravating its spectacular hangover too much.

In Crowley's defence, it had been one _Hell_ of an evening.

Crowley unsteadily staggered to his feet, halfheartedly making semi-rude gestures at rubbernecking passersby; but his heart wasn't really in it.

Whatever strange goings-on were… well, going on, Aziraphale was clearly suffering from it, too. Poor angel was entirely out of his mind, entirely delusional, and Crowley… Crowley was going to stalk right back over there, and snap Aziraphale out of it.

(A reasonable demon might've decided not to further antagonise a smite-happy angel.

Crowley, however, as the Esteemed Reader surely knows, was regrettably reason-impaired, and had never met a reckless Aziraphale-saving-related endeavour he wasn't ready to embark on at the drop of a hat, so there was that.)

* * *

As eager as the Esteemed Reader surely is to see Crowley heroically barge into the not-quite-familiar bookshop and restore Aziraphale's senses to him, ideally with a desperate bruising kiss - nearly as eager as Crowley himself, we wager - we must regrettably inform them that, for now, we leave our cherished protagonist to his own devices in favour of directing attention to a few highly relevant side characters.

The Esteemed Reader will surely recall the breakdown of the park's demographic in an earlier footnote? Old, young, dog, religious?

The latter is who we must concern ourselves with.

The two Christians - with a Capital C so Capital Karl Marx could write yet another book about it - were the sort to make people who passed them mildly uncomfortable, holding flyers titled REPENT. - in a font that made comic sans look professional, and without exclamation mark because that was already far too scandalous in their eyes - and described Jesus Christ in flowery terms that would put the purplest of proses to shame.*

*Incidentally, this was the closest to pornography these people had, what with His** Essence spilling over into you, and He entering you, causing a divine ecstasy. It was saucy stuff, and Crowley had once, shamefully, rubbed one out over a pamphlet concerned with angels - Principalities, to be precise - whose illustration had resembled Aziraphale just a little bit.

Not his proudest moment, to be sure.

(He still had that pamphlet.)

**God's genderlessness (tending towards the female since around the middle of the Old Testament) was, for some ineffable reason, often ignored by publications of this ilk. Ever so strange.

The name of the older was noted in her birth certificate - she had no driver's license, believing cars to be low-level devilwork - as Marjorie Potts*, though it had been years since someone had addressed her with anything other than simply Mrs Potts.

*For those among the Esteemed Reader unaware of the significance of this name, we take this opportunity to inform you that a certain Madame Tracy was not really called Madame Tracy at all, and that the embroidery on her silk bedsheets had the initials M.P. stitched into the corner with fine glittering thread.

Mrs Potts was a severe woman with an even severerer glare, who disapproved of anything and everything, except, perhaps…

Perhaps…

No, everything, really.

She only wore the sort of drab colours that made one blink and briefly wonder if one had gone colourblind upon looking at her, and every single button she had available was closed so firmly you could hardly imagine her ever taking her high-necked blouse off. One might say she wore it like a second skin, but that would imply nudity, which was obviously unthinkable.

A woollen cardigan was her Armour of Righteousness, hideous and scratchy, and a Bible was permanently fused to the area underneath her arm.

In short, she was the sort of Christian who gave religion a bad name, and she reveled in it.

Beside Mrs Potts stood a timid young woman who was clearly used to still being referred to as "girl", wearing a skirt that barely left room for Jesus between its hem and the floor, as well as a tentative smile as she was trying to catch the eye of passersby.

The girl's name was Anathema, and her family, the Devices, had been Deeply Religious™* for centuries upon centuries.

*One would think it were impossible to trademark religiousness, but one had obviously never met the Devices.

For, you see, this is not only a story about a sudden change in the world, and the repercussions of the same.

It is also a story about a Witchfinderess, her passionate zealotry, and - not to spoil or anything - prophecies that are neither nice nor accurate, and about two descendants of mortal enemies that perhaps, possibly, maybe, fall in love despite the circumstances.

And this story starts over 300 years ago, with Witchfinderess Captain* Agnes Nutter, a god-fearing woman who despised witchcraft from the bottom of her soul, and had a coal sketch of Cromwell always tucked into her pillowcase.

*If the Esteemed Reader is wondering why Agnes happened to have risen only to the rank of Captain, if she was the penchant to General Pulsifer in the version of events they are familiar with, we sadly inform them that she was suffering under the severe disadvantage of being born female, and that the glass ceiling phenomenon was not an uncommon issue even if the organisation in question did _not_ make their living off of burning women.

One day, this Agnes claimed to have received God's Order - chances were it had simply been her superiors, but Agnes liked to pretend she was on speaking terms with the Almighty - packed only the bare essentials, and made her way across the countryside to what was commonly known as the Last True Witch's Coven in all of England.

The subsequent explosion of said coven rather cemented her reputation as a genuine Deliverer of God's Wrath, and her entire family vowed to keep The Faith forevermore, extolling her virtues and praising her name for generations to come.

(They did, however, get rather phenomenally stroppy when people pointed out that, if God had had any hand in it at all, it had been helped along substantially by Mistress Nutter's Witchfinder Army regulation skirts, and the eight pounds of gunpowder and roofing nails concealed within them.)

In any case, Anathema had grown up firmly embraced in semi-cultic organised religion, and when she met Mrs Potts at prayer group, and had instantly been declared her protege, her family had been nothing short of delighted.

They weren't actually relevant quite yet, of course, standing in a park and ponderously pontificating.

But they would be, so we deemed it prudent to introduce them early.

Back, then, to the action.

* * *

Crowley peered over the hedge of the bush,* carefully scanning the facade of Fell's Books for secret entries or the like.

*Please, Esteemed Reader, do not question what a convenient hiding bush is doing on the pavement in the middle of London. Crowley was having a hard enough time doggedly ignoring the logical flaws in the concept, he doesn't need your doubt on top of that.

He spotted at least five signs advertising discounts with subtle demon-alarm sigils hidden in the margins, and any convenient grate was firmly soldered into place, bars close enough together to keep even the slimmest of snakes from wriggling through.

As much as the Sean Connery in him longed for some covert ops action, it didn't seem like that was going to happen.

So Crowley stopped believing in convenient bushes at the sides of busy London roads, and meekly pulled a paper tissue from the depths of his pocket.

Waving it through the air in the hope that it would read as a white flag, Crowley made for the front entrance.

(He was also humming the Bond theme under his breath, because he direly needed to preserve at least a modicum of coolness in this sorry affair.)

"Aziraphale?" He tentatively called into the shop. "Angel?"

No response.

Right. Step 3.*

*The 5-step-plan was something Crowley had developed centuries ago for dealing with Aziraphale after they'd had a minor-to-medium disagreement, and it went roughly as follows:

Step 1: just pretend nothing happened and show up as usual. He might've already forgiven you.

Step 2: call him angel. It'll remind him that he's supposed to be the better celestial entity here. (And besides, he likes it.)

Step 3: apologise. A lot.

Step 4: apologise. A lot. With chocolate.

(Theoretically, there should be a step 5, but Aziraphale had yet to fail to forgive him at step 4, so Crowley hadn't exactly had occasion to plan past that.)

"I'm very sorry for upsetting you, angel!" Crowley tentatively stepped into the shop, for all intents and purposes empty, keeping his back to the bookcases. "I didn't mean to, really didn't. M'sorry, alright? How about we talk about what I can do to make it better?"

Still no answer.

Step 4 time.

Crowley held out one arm past the end of a shelf, waving the white tissue.

"How about we go to your favourite confectionery, and I buy you chocolaAAAAAHHH!"

Crowley shrieked in a manner far more Bond Girl than Bond James, and jerked the tissue back, which was now sporting a _bullet hole_ in its middle.

"Angel! What the-" He spluttered, and then added a handful of bless words we really cannot repeat even in the rudest of companies.

"Your reflexes really aren't what they used to be, _demon."_ Aziraphale stepped around the shelf with all the casual threat of an apex predator on the prowl, and Crowley hated himself a little for his initial reaction being a non-autocorrected version of _oh, duck me sideways, that's HOT._

As much as Crowley wanted to bury his face in the softness of Aziraphale's usual appearance, there was just _something_ about this sight, his lovely angel in a sharp suit and hair slicked back, casually aiming a gun at him without even the slightest tremor in his grip.*

*Aziraphale strongly disliked guns, even in the "right" hands, Crowley knew. He deemed them too cruel, too distant, and too easy to use to take a life. If at all possible, he didn't even touch the things.

Yet another glaring discrepancy.

And then, as if to fully convince Crowley that this was merely a spy-themed wet dream he was having while he digested his monthly entire chicken, Aziraphale purred "I've been _expecting_ you, Mr Crawly" with the sort of wicked smile Bond villains _wished_ they had.

"Crowley." Crowley corrected automatically, while most of his brain was quietly salivating over a fantasy featuring restraints, a laser, and far less clothing.*

*"Do you expect me to talk, Dr Angel?"

"Why, no, my dear boy. I expect you to _moan."_

  * _Select sexual fantasies of A. J. Crowley, vol. 5, "Bond-age"._



"Wait-" Those bits of him that were slowly returning to rational thought began, and then his reflexes took over and he threw himself out of the way of another bullet, scrambling for cover.

"Well, this is no fun!" Aziraphale complained, following at a leisurely pace. "Whyever would you breach the sanctity of my bookshop and then not even put up a proper fight, Crawly?"

"M'not Craw-" Crowley managed, and then dove behind the counter when another shot rang through the air. "I'm not _Crawly,_ Aziraphale!"

A pause.

"Yes you are." Aziraphale said, in a spectacularly condescending sort of way. "Don't argue, demon."

Now, granted, Crowley had spent the day being rather confused over a number of things, to the point of hardly trusting any of his knowledge and beliefs.

He did, however, feel like the ultimate authority on his identity was still _him,_ all things considered, and Aziraphale assuming otherwise was very rude indeed.*

*Perhaps not _quite_ as rude as shooting at someone with little to no provocation, but close enough.

"My name is _Crowley."_ Crowley enunciated carefully, if a bit panicky. "Not Crawly (anymore), so, whoever you _think_ I am and are so heavenbent to kill - that's not me."

Another pause. Crowley pressed himself into the dark space underneath the counter, and contemplated praying.*

*Not to Her, of course. Crowley had found that _literally ANY other deity_ tended to be more immediate and reliable help, and were therefore the better bet in an emergency.

"I quite literally have never heard anything less believable than this, and I helped Charles Darwin brainstorm that idiotic theory* of his." Aziraphale said. "But go on."

*"Evolution, or Survival of the Least Fit Couch Potato Out There", at the time of its publication highly debated, and a scientific masterpiece the Angelic Host was obviously taking very personal.

That was… a start.

"Look." Crowley began, ever vigilant for the gently-Holy presence on the other side of the counter to start moving again. "Look."

And then, he floundered. How in Hell were you supposed to explain… _the entirety of today so far_ in words that sounded even _remotely_ like the truth?

"Er." Crowley tried. "Now, this will sound a bit odd…"

"You really are doing a splendid job selling this already, aren't you." Aziraphale quipped, just a little too dry and not quite fond enough.

"Shut up, angel." Well, never mind that, Crowley was going to sound fond for the both of them. "What I mean to say is, something's out to get us."

 _"Us?"_ Aziraphale echoed, which was a little strange, that he'd focus on that and not the something or the getting.

"You, me, probably the whole blessed world while they're at it." He waved vaguely - and pointlessly, since he was still hidden from view. "The works, you know. Nothing is as it's supposed to be! My plants are horrible art now, Bob Ross is making someone with a swear jar very rich, and you…"

Crowley broke off.

"Me?" Aziraphale pressed, very nearly curious.

_"You don't do the Thing."_ Crowley mumbled dejectedly into his knees, and even though Aziraphale couldn't possibly hear it, it was the only response that truly mattered.

Style changes and smiting were _nothing,_ why would Crowley even _care_ as long as his angel still smiled at him?

Crowley had faced Heaven and Hell and Satan Himself for that smile,* he could bear a plethora of other hardships, too.

*There's a pun about being smitten in here somewhere, but we'll be damned if we can actually find it!

Louder, he said "well, you're using me as target practice, for a start!", but it didn't come out quite as acerbic as he might've liked.

More miserable and pathetic.

Damn.

Might as well just lean into it.

"And it's _awful."_ He whined. "Do you have any idea what it's like, waking up disoriented and rushing to the one person that's on your side, the _only_ person who you can always depend on, and they, they just - Now, I don't blame you, not really. Whoever or whatever is behind this, they've probably done something to your memory, what with… calling me Crawly, and all, but _still."_

Crowley hugged his knees tighter.

"We're best friends, Aziraphale." He muttered pathetically. "Couldn't you have remembered that, if nothing else?"

A very, very long pause, silent but for Crowley trying and failing to contain some wet sniffles.

An intake of breath, suddenly, Aziraphale gearing up to speak.

(Did this jog his memory? Would he mutter a dazed "Crowley?", drop the gun, fall into Crowley's arms and shake apart at the memory of having _sold books_ while not in full control of his capacities?)

And then, he let the air out again in a pointed sigh.

 _"Again_ with the mind games, Crawly? I thought we'd left those behind in the 20th century!" A little huff he just _knew_ was accompanied by a rolling of the eyes. "Points for creativity, I suppose, but rather convoluted plot. And the emotional friendship angle, _really,_ demon? You insult me, even vaguely hoping that'll ever work."

 _Well, shit._ Crowley thought, tipping from faint hope over into resignation. _He doesn't believe me.*_

*Not that Crowley himself would, if the roles were reversed. BUT STILL.

"It's not a game, I _swear_ to you it's not!" He said hurriedly. "Wouldn't ever do that, very honest, me, McWitnesson would probably vouch for me, I'm _that_ sincere."*

*The Esteemed Reader may, at this point, have a vague suspicion of dear Honesther perhaps being less trustworthy in this version of reality… and they would, of course, be absolutely correct.

"The word of a demon-" Aziraphale patiently started on the old party-line propaganda.

"I'll sign you anything!" Crowley interrupted, and that, that _meant_ something.

Demons didn't swear on things, generally, not if they _truly_ intended the vow to carry any weight. Anything and everything is inconsequential, immaterial, worthless in Hell, we're all just cogs in the Infernal Machine, you can't swear on your mother's grave because _you don't have a mother,_ and any number of other cheerful sentiments that the demotivational posters lining the corridors proclaimed.

Who cares what a demon swears on? It's all naught to them.

But a _signature?_ On a legal, binding contract?

 _Now_ we're talking.

"The _signature_ of a demon-" Aziraphale simply continued blithely, and Crowley's remaining hopes floundered on the rocks of iniquity, and vanished.

Whatever marble they - whoever "they" were, Crowley's money was on Heaven but you never knew - had carefully extracted, it had clearly contained all of Aziraphale's common sense, and the healthy measure of self-doubt that saved him from the blind, fanatical hypocrisy most other angels suffered from.

Crowley wasn't going to get through to him - not this way, in any case.

And - oh bollocks - Aziraphale had apparently wrapped up whatever self-righteous rot Heaven endorsed this century, and was moving again.

Perhaps, Crowley decided calmly and reasonably, it was time for a tactical retreat, so he might better enact that foolproof plan he totally had and which was guaranteed to work out.

And that was absolutely what happened, rather than some yelping in terror and mindless scrambling for a way out, the door, he needed to-

The door slammed shut right in front of him, locking and warding itself with resounding finality.

Plan B, then.*

*In all honesty, it was more of a plan K by now, but Crowley wasn't running out of alphabet yet, that was a good sign.

Crowley leapt at the window, fully intending to crash through it in a spectacular shower of glass shards and special effects.

The Esteemed Reader should know, for future reference, that if multiple bullets have been fired in the vague direction of a window and it has inexplicably _not_ shattered, there's likely a good reason for it.

Whatever the good reason was in this case - perhaps a miracle or two - the window proved an immovable object in the face of Crowley's very-much-stoppable force.

"Ow." Crowley said.*

*It was really more of a >thunk<->flop<-"ow", but we deemed the moment pathetic enough as is, even without the fully onomatopoeic transcript.

And then the world went dark.

* * *

A figure in a black cloak stood in the middle of an apothecary, and quietly despaired.

"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" The pharmacist asked politely. "Cough drops? Ibuprofen? Antibiotics?"

THIS WAS A LONG SHOT, ANYWAY. Death said miserably, and left the spitting image of Pestilence to restock the penicillin.

* * *

"You know," said a voice in the dark, "I would honestly love to know how you envisioned this to pan out, I really would."

Crowley groaned. Existence was pain.

His head was also pain. Especially his nose, which was _very_ pain, and felt strangely squishy.

He attempted to do what any person with a bruise would do - poke it and go "ouchie" - but his arms stubbornly remained twisted uncomfortably behind his back.

 _'Ah,'_ Crowley thought, 'there _are the restraints.'*_

*The second Crowley had a minute to himself, he was going to revisit this entire experience very carefully, wearing very little in terms of trousers and furiously showering his Effort with attention until he was sore.

"You had the element of surprise, for one."

Crowley blinked his eyes open. His sunglasses were gone - light, ow - and Aziraphale was sitting in a chair right across from him, one leg crossed over the other and gun causally resting against his thigh.*

*Crowley swallowed, and decided that once he'd rubbed his Effort raw, he was going to manifest the other option and do it all over again.

"Nnnngah." He said, the very picture of eloquence and suaveness, _eat your heart out Connery._

"And simply gave it away by announcing your arrival!" Aziraphale ignored him entirely, prattling on. "I really don't see what advantage you intended to gain with that. Care to enlighten me?"

"Grk." Crowley explained meekly.

"Intruding on my bookshop without prior notice or challenge is plain against the rules, of course." Casually flicking a bit of dust from his impeccable suit. Oh, but he looked gorgeous in it. "This method acting deception you appear to be pursuing is impressive... if just for how very bold it is of you to even attempt it. Terribly far-fetched plot, too."

"Truth." Crowley forced out. Oh, his head really _was_ splitting. "All. Please, believe me, please..."

Brows knitted themselves together into a frown that was much harsher than it had any reason to be. "You're being very strange today, Crawly, you really are. I would've thought you much too prideful for most of what you've done today in the name of sticking to this Crowley character. If you told me yesterday that "please" was even part of your vocabulary, I would've laughed. Are you trying out for the Royal Marlowe Company, is that it?"

 _"M'Crowley."_ Crowley insisted stubbornly, and was pleased to note at least some improvements to his speaking abilities. "And _you're_ the one who's behaving strangely, you jus' can't tell."

Aziraphale's response was to cock the gun, and point it straight at Crowley's head.

"Come now, demon." He said, mock-pleasantly. "You gave it a sporting try, but the game is up. At this point you're simply annoying me, and I really do not think you want to do that. Explain your plan, I know you have one, or at least whatever villainous goal you're pursuing; if not, I will be forced to take measures we will both..."

A contemplative pause.

"No, I don't think I'll regret it myself. That _you_ will regret, then."

Sometimes, it is in the strangest situations that one finds one has had _entirely_ enough, and will not be taking any more lip, thank you very much, no more Mr Nice Demon.

This was one such instance.

"What are you gonna do, angel, shoot me?"* Crowley scoffed, in a burst of bravery and previously unparalleled heights of stupidity. "We both know that's entirely pointless."

*Of all the utterances one instantly regretted, this one hit the hardest - and usually very quickly, too.

Just… give it a few seconds.

"Hmm." Aziraphale's eyes narrowed.

It was true. Discorporation or physical pain were nothing but additional paperwork in the long run, with the added impracticality of allowing his captive to escape from the bookshop again.

He wasn't going to shoot, Crowley knew.

"You're quite right, of course." Aziraphale sighed, and slowly flicked the safety back on, setting the gun down on a nearby shelf.

"This, however…" He reached into his suit. "...is another matter."

And with that, Crowley found himself face to face with an innocuous, colourful, and _deadly_ Holy Water-pistol.

"Oh _shit."_ Crowley blurted out, and immediately tried to shuffle himself backwards, while also appearing as non-threatening as possible.*

*Yup, yup, _there_ was the regret.

"Well well well. I note a distinct shift in attitude." Aziraphale smirked, the bastard.

"A-Angel, p-put that away, before you hurt s-sssomeone." Crowley stammered nervously, pressing himself against the wall at his back. "You d-don't want to do that."

"Oh, but, I assure you I _do."_ Said very sweetly, and very, very coldly. "You know the rules, Crawly. If you break them, I break them. Isn't mutually assured destruction grand?"

"What rules!?" Crowley's voice was steadily rising in pitch. "For Satan's sake, angel, I have no idea what you're talking about! Stop this, _stop it_ _please,_ you'll never forgive yourself if you _actualnnnngk!!!!"_

Aziraphale tilted Crowley's chin up with the nozzle, almost gently.

"I weary of lies, Crawly." Aziraphale said, not-quite-Aziraphale with his slicked-back hair and hate-filled eyes, smiling without humour and training the watergun straight at Crowley's forehead. "Anything else you have to say? I'm giving you two minutes, and two minutes exactly. The truth, now, or nothing."

Crowley swallowed.

"I'm _me,_ Aziraphale." He whispered through a mouth dry enough to give the Sahara desert a run for its money. "Your _friend._ You might not know it now, might not be _my_ friend currently, but… we're on a side of our own, you and me, angel. Against Heaven and Hell, for the world, ringing any bells? I care for you like I care for no other being in all of existence, I'd never hurt you, never trick you, never attack, you _know_ that!"

Aziraphale blinked. Sceptically so, but it was a start.

"And I..." 

_(Oh, he shouldn't say it. It was the truth though, and Aziraphale had demanded the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, all that honesty nonsense.)_

"I love you." Crowley croaked, gazing up at this stranger that was nonetheless Aziraphale in all his boundless glory, and watched surprise take over his entire face, slacken the features into a closer semblance of the angel he so adored. "I've loved you since we first met, please Aziraphale, I wouldn't lie to you, I never lied to you in my life, trust me. Believe me."

There was something, perhaps, some unidentifiable emotion in the creases around Aziraphale's eyes that gave him hope.

"I _love_ you!" Crowley reiterated fervently, and if he never said it again in all his existence, if he went a billion years without it until the little bird had ground a mountain to dust, then he'd said it now and it _counted._

Strangely, as much as his heart was currently residing in the rough vicinity of his kneecap, it felt curiously light now, as if a weight 6000 years in the making had simply… dropped off.

It was so easy to say, all of a sudden, this great and terrible secret; and for one shining moment, Crowley believed it was all going to be well again.

Aziraphale met his eyes, startling sky-blue against for-once-unobscured gold, his grip on the gun visibly faltering at the sight of tear tracks on Crowley's cheeks.

And then, those brilliant eyes shuttered closed, and his softening expression hardened into a mask of abject fury within a fraction of a second.

"Two minutes are up." Aziraphale said coldly, and pulled the trigger.

  
  
  


The last thing Crowley saw - _last thing,_ what a strange thought to a near-immortal - was the expression on Aziraphale's face when the Holy Water hit him, cracking open to display…

Not shock, no.

But surprise, naïve, innocent surprise; like a little boy throwing his favourite toy across the room, and startling to see it break against the wall into a thousand useless pieces.

  
  
  
  


And then.

Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CROWLEY'S FINE NOTE THAT NO CHARACTER DEATH WAS TAGGED HE'S FINE HE'S FINE HE'S FIIIIIIIINE!
> 
> ...or at least he will be.  
> Apologies for that cliffhanger, you have every right to shout at me for it.  
> <3


	4. Defy The Laws Of Nature (And Come Out Alive)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *should* probably have used a line from Bohemian Rhapsody for this chapter's title - you'll see why - but this one fit better. Seven Seas of Rhye, just like the last one. They match!
> 
> This one fixes some of the things I wrecked last chapter. A little bit. Just a tad. Sorry(-I'm-not-really-sorry) again!  
> <3

Crowley was.

That was all.

Maybe he  _ just  _ "was", even, since he wasn't exactly sure if the term "Crowley" still applied to him.

Even being unsure took a tremendous amount of effort, and he only managed a handful of… of… time intervals of indeterminate length… of being terribly, paralyzingly afraid before he collapsed back into apathy.

_ I'm Crowley. _ He thought then, and that worked quite a bit better.

Thinking was easy, while feeling was not. Probably something to do with hormones and brains and suggestions of corporeal - or even non-corporeal - forms, and the absence of the same. Crowley would contemplate this some more, if attempting to feel curiosity didn't make him want to lie down and sleep for a century or two.

Right. So he was Crowley. And Crowley…

Crowley was…

...hm.

Thinking yes, feeling no, memory a struggle. Well, brilliant.*

*Sarcasm still worked, then.  _ Wonderful, _ what  _ would _ he have done without it.

Crowley thought harder.

Images of Aziraphale floated through his brain- mind… conscious?, and Crowley thought about feeling betrayed and hurt and heartbroken, in an abstract sort of way that nonetheless tired him out.

And then, there was the love.

Love, the Esteemed Reader should know, was not an emotion, as Crowley saw it.

Love was a truth, a constant, a state of being, not just some fleeting feeling, and here, here he had proof.

Accessing sadness and fear and even happiness in this… state… was not unlike waking up from a coma and straining to force malnourished and thoroughly emasculated muscles to move one's limbs. Difficult, exhausting, near impossible. Moving was a faraway memory of and ability he'd once had, and long since lost.

But feeling love for Aziraphale, that desire to protect and adore and make him happy, that was as easy as breathing.

(Easier than that, actually. Crowley had trouble remembering to make his lungs do things even when he actually had had any.*

*Hastur had made fun of him for it once, but Hastur had no room to talk after what Hell had decided to call The Bowels Incident and never ever let him forget, even going so far as to put a little commemorative plaque up at the incident site in question.)

So, he loved Aziraphale, still and always. 'Til death do you part, and then a little extra, come wind or rain or shooting each other with Holy Water.

That was good to know, and Crowley was almost glad for being shielded from having the kind of emotional response that would involve copious amounts of snot and tears* and making a rather undignified display of himself.

*Plus a tub of ice cream, baby mouse taste (artificial).

But, and here was the thing, Crowley was rather certain Aziraphale loved him, too.

Not the same way, of course.

Crowley loved Aziraphale the way the moth loved the flickering flame, desperately and all-consuming, the only point of light in a dark and dreary universe.

Aziraphale loved Crowley the way one loved a good book. Which, yes, was still quite a lot in Aziraphale's case, of course, but with the freedom to put it away at all times and pursue other venues; a casual, unaffected love.

Or, at the very least, that was how it was for now*; but still, whatever you wished to call it, friendship, love, affection, the baseline remained a general unwillingness to kill the other.

*Hope evidently springs eternal, and is, quite literally, the last to die.

Which. Well.

Case in point, the current state of Crowley's being, and the situation that had led to it.

Something was wrong with that, reallyterriblyawfully wrong. Aziraphale would never,  _ never _ kill Crowley deliberately, absolutely out of the question, unthinkable.*

*As for on accident...

Look, the whole knife-throwing act had been Crowley's idea, anyways, so it was really his own damn fault not to consider that daggers  _ slipped, _ sometimes. Aziraphale was blameless, really, and had professed to feel quite terrible over it, even though Crowley had assured him that bloodstains barely showed on red-sequin-covered stage outfits, and he hadn't really needed that spleen, anyway.

So, Crowley thought rationally and sensibly - not that he had any other choice - so. Aziraphale had killed him without meaning to, his flat had been rearranged, his car stolen, and the telly people seemed to be celebrating April Fools early.

It was all ghastly, really.

Crowley felt something pool uncomfortably in his not-belly, and found that, just like love, existential dread was also exempt from the damper this plane/state of existence/afterlife put on emotions.

On a soul-deep level, Crowley was very, very afraid, and beginning to feel it.

_ Is this the real life… is this just fantasy? _ Crowkey began to sing softly.

(Or maybe he just thought. Depending on whether he not he still could.)

It wasn't much, but it was  _ something _ in the blacker-than-darkness, the quieter-than-silence, the emptier-than-nothingness around him, and Crowley held on to it.

_ Any way the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me... _

Crowley did something that felt a little like curling in on himself, but probably wasn't.

_...to me... _

* * *

There was an angel in the bookshop the Esteemed Reader knows as Aziraphale's, going by the same name, in the same corporation, but behaving in a way that was violently - literally - out of character enough to surely give them pause.

An imposter, they will think. A trap. A strangely similar angel who lived just next door and was spelled  _ Asiraffale, actually, one s, two f's and a burning hatred for presumptuous demons. _

None of that was the case, we may tell them.*

*Asiraffale lived down in Dover, and was at worst ambivalent about demonic beings.

This was Aziraphale, and yet not quite  _ Aziraphale; _ close enough to confuse, but not distant enough to actually be someone else.

Thus, for now, we shall continue referring to him as such, until a better option presents itself.

So, this angel we call Aziraphale, half out of convenience and half because, well, that actually was his name, was standing at the counter of his bookshop, and conducted his business as usual.*

*This consisted mostly of watching the entrance like a hawk with a few volumes of the latest bestseller tucked under his arm, ready to ambush any and all unsuspecting customers and force at least three on them before the little bell above the door had even finished ringing.

Aziraphale's record was a sale - oh, we still shudder to use the words "Aziraphale" and "sale" in the same sentence, but it must be done - a full two minutes before the customer even crossed the threshold, and he would never cease to be just a little proud of himself over it.

One would think him entirely unaffected by the Hollywood-movie-style drama that had just transpired in his bookshop, if his eyes did not stray towards the slightly discoloured patch of carpet by the windows from time to time, causing a distinctive souring of expression.

_ (Somewhere far beyond reality, outside of existence, Crowley was singing still: _

_ Mama… just killed a man… put my gun against his head…) _

And then, this Aziraphale would shake his head only ever so slightly, and resume his watch.

(The Esteemed Reader is surely appalled, and struggles to imagine carrying on quite so calmly after the death of one's dearest, oldest friend.

However, as they might well suspect already, this Aziraphale, as he appeared now, and whoever he knew as "Crawly" were not like that at all. Old, yes, but friends? Dear?

Not enough to spare, and evidently not enough to properly mourn, either.)

Suddenly, a soft, ethereal chime; and what-passes-for-Aziraphale-in-these-parts barely had time enough to groan and roll his eyes before electricity sparked through the air and a familiar figure appeared.

"I  _ do _ have a business to run, you know." He complained pointedly, pushing past the newcomer to flip the open sign* closed with obvious reluctance. "Which is becoming rather difficult to do if I am accosted by visitors at all hours of the day, let me tell you, Gabriel."

*"Open Mo-Sun 5-22, open on holidays, feel free to ring bell or visit our website (www. FellsBooks .com) after closing for urgent purchases."

Now, the Esteemed Reader will no doubt be gripped with sudden worry. Gabriel, visiting? After all he had done to Aziraphale throughout the years, after the failed burning?

Well, it may reassure them to know that one look at this Gabriel revealed he was Not Gabriel the same way Aziraphale wasn't quite Aziraphale, or the Horsepersons were so strongly distinct.

Where the regular, familiar version stood larger than life, commandeering any room he occupied by sheer virtue of being the man most full of himself in it, this Gabriel was…

...not.

He was still built muscular, of course, but something about him screamed of not wanting to be noticed, an instinctive curling of the shoulders and ducking of the head, all uncertainty and timidness.*

*Yes.  _ Gabriel. Shy. _ Take a moment to let that sink in, dear Reader.

The original version had a poster of a cat hanging off a branch in his office, because he believed it might improve work ethic, and also because ha, look at that poor non-angelic creature struggling to perpetuate its existence in the face of the ultimate terror of death, how  _ droll! _

This version had one because he genuinely needed the encouragement it provided, and if the cat managed to hold on, then so would he.*

*He also had a mug of Odie, the dog that loves Mondays, which the rest of Heaven had all chipped in for after he tragically broke his favourite "I <3 My Co-angels" mug sometime around the 5th century.

Aziraphale seemed perfectly unperturbed by this strangely hesitant Gabriel, simply pushing past him, back to the counter.

"What is it, then?"

"W-w-well." Gabriel began, stuttering and fidgeting, in a soft, unobtrusive voice, the sort that gently asked to be heard, rather than simply assaulting the ears.* "T-there… t-t-there is…"

*If the Esteemed Reader is experiencing light-headedness or disorientation over the mental image of a cripplingly shy Gabriel struggling to get even a single word out, we recommend sitting down and taking a sip of water or two. It's a jarring thought, we know, and hope none are unduly unsettled by it.

Instead of politely folding his hands and letting Gabriel carry on, only contributing the occasional encouraging nod - as one would expect him to do, frankly - Aziraphale interrupted sharply with an "I've not got all day, Gabriel. Kindly  _ get on with it." _

Gabriel flinched.*

*And with a man-shaped being of his stature, that was quite the endeavour. A bit like a miniature earthquake across the muscular planes of his shoulders, about a 3.7 on the Fright scale.**

**Developed by Sir Frederick Fright, an early author of gothic horror, who wished to quantify reactions to his material and determine the scariest possible story elements.

(Sadly, his statistics were skewed considerably by his wife's pathological fear of fluffy bunnies, and Fright's works are, to this day, frequently read to little children before bedtime.)

Did something that was very like a child glancing over their shoulder to an adult for instructions, except down at his feet.

_ "Azzz we talked about, zzzweetheart." _ Buzzed a voice from Below encouragingly.

Somewhat buffeted, Gabriel bravely tried again.

"T-t-t-there i-is… i-i-i-is….."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.*

*Yes,  _ all _ of them, including the tiny one under the third elbow from the left.

A 5.9 flinch, and Gabriel turned on his heels and fled the bookshop.

"1… 2… 3…" Aziraphale counted under his breath, idly re-stacking a few of the summer thrillers while he was at it.

A noise like the beating of a million insectoid wings, mixed with the same chime as before.

_ (Bee-elzebub has a devil put aside for me, Crowley sang, far, far away and awhen. For me, for me….) _

"7 seconds." Aziraphale muttered to himself. Not a record, but impressive time, nonetheless. Then, louder, "I rather hope you and Gabriel have come to make a purchase, Lord Beelzebub. I'm losing money and business as we speak."

(Esteemed Reader, are you seated? Smelling salts within arm's reach? A paper bag to breathe into? All good? Then please count to 10 before resuming your read.*

*This message has been brought to you by the Authors' Association for Reader Shock Prevention. Fic responsibly!)

The demon identified as Beelzebub ceased fussing over the awkward archangel…

...and squealed.

Loudly. Happily.

Like a pig in a poke of delight, beaming from ear to ear and even more so in between.

It was most unsettling, but for all the wrong reasons, including zir outfit, which looked like an anime clown had gotten into a stash of pastel colours and someone had attached the result to zir with glitter glue.

"Azzzi!" Ze exclaimed cheerfully, bounding over and enveloping Aziraphale in a hug and a cloud of flies. "How often have I told you to call me Bee, zzzilly?"

"Very often, Lord Beelzebub." Aziraphale responded dryly, none-too-gently twisting out of zir grasp. "I haven't counted."*

*Regular Aziraphale would have, and come up with 1069 times; prompting Crowley to comment  _ "nice". _

Beelzebub  _ pouted - _ we hope the Esteemed Reader understands how much it pained us to write these words in immediate succession* - and skipped back to Gabriel's side, who leaned into zir like a touch-starved puppy.

*The Beelzebub we all know and… love…? only had two expressions, "angry" and "flies", and either of them would eat a pout alive _while making its family_ _watch._

"Gabby wazzz trying to tell you zzzomething  _ very _ important, Azzzi." Beelzebub zzzaid, slipping zir arm around Gabriel's waist.

(Yes. Yes they were dating, and yes, they were  _ That Couple. _

You know the one. GabrielandBeelzebub. Inseparable and insufferable.)

"Emphasis on  _ trying."  _ Aziraphale muttered under his breath.

"Yezzz, we're... working on that." A soppy sort of smile to Gabriel. "You did a fantazzztic job, honeybunch, don't worry."

"T-thanks." Gabriel stuttered, flushing.

And then, softer, more tender: "I l-love you."

Aziraphale flinched at a magnitude as of yet never measured on the Fright scale, eyes flickering over to where Crowley had begged for his life.

His hand began to tremble, just slightly, barely noticeable, and for a moment, just a moment, there was a flash of something  _ raw _ in his face.

_ (So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye? Crowley hummed softly. Think you can love me and leave me to die?) _

"WHAT were you going to tell me?" He burst out with a little more than just impatience.

"Oh. Yezzz. Of courzzze." Ze giggled, pulling away from Gabriel slightly.*

* _ Giggled,  _ my god. If the Esteemed Reader will excuse us, we're feeling a little faint ourselves…

"It'zzz about… it'zzz probably nothing, actually." A cloud passed over zir expression. Aziraphale immediately straightened his posture, and did something he very rarely indulged in when in the presence of Gabriel and Beelzebub: he paid attention. "Only… it zzzeemzzz like the zzzignzzz are all pointing Apokalypzzze. The Monzzzter of the Pit izzz getting rezzztlezzz, the Horzzzepeople report Death behaving… zzztrange, and… we all juzzzt have a bad feeling."

Aziraphale raised one eyebrow. "That's probably indigestion." He said mildly. "Have you checked with the canteen?"

"W-we're inv-v-vestigating. At our e-ends." Gabriel managed to get out, and immediately broke out in a surprised-happy smile that made one imagine little flowers and butterflies floating around his face.

It was full-on Disney princess,* and entirely unlike the corporate-shell plastic grin the Esteemed Reader will be more familiar with.

*Or, perhaps, Sound-of-Music-protagonist-esque.

"And zzzince you have done zzzterling work on thizzz izzzue previouzzzly…" Beelzebub blinked hopefully at Aziraphale, flies arranging in a vague heart shape around zir. "We thought you could make zzzome inquiriezzz here on earth? Pleazzze?"

"You are my superiors, whyever would you be asking politely?" Aziraphale said snidely, indicating this wasn't something he'd just voiced for the first time.

"P-p-pl-pl-ple-"

"Oh for…" He rolled his eyes. "Yes. Fine. It'll wreak havoc with my sales, but I'll do it. Would you be so kind as to leave n-"

"Oh, before I forget - have you talked to Crawly lately?" Beelzebub simply babbled over him. "He hazzzn't been in contact with uzzz, and I'm a little worried, honezzztly."

Aziraphale discreetly pushed the water gun behind a stack of books.

"Haven't seen him, no." A twitch of his index finger, as if curling around an invisible trigger. "I'm sure he's... quite alright, my Lord."

_ (Pulled my trigger, now he's dead… Crowley muttered with a bitter smile.) _

"Let'zzz hope he showzzz up zzzoon, then!" Beelzebub probably could've deflated slightly in zir worry, but you might already be able to tell that that was  _ not _ how ze rolled. "We azzzigned the cazzze to him, too, like alwayzzz. You're zzzuch good friendzzz, after all!"

Aziraphale grimaced. "...you shouldn't have.  _ Really _ shouldn't have."

"I'm zzzure thizzz'll all turn out for the bezzzt!" Ze clasped zir hands together, revealing a mass of colourful bracelet-type thingies around zir wrists, many of which had twins under the sleeves of Gabriel's shirt.*

*If Crowley had taken the time to sift through the piles of rubbish in the corners of his not-flat, he would've found about fifty of these friendship bracelets carelessly chucked aside, as well as wrappers for at least three types of long-discontinued types of sweets, a newspaper from 1753, and a handful of feathers evidently ripped from an angel's wing.

"Gabby and me are going to go have a milkzzzzhake now!" Beelzebub continued chattering, grabbing Gabriel's hand and pulling him towards the exit. "Bye Azzzi! Thankzzz again! Zzzay hello to Crawly for uzzz!"

"Mind the wet spot on your way out." Aziraphale said evenly.

  
  
  


And then, once the two were gone, he sank to his knees and quietly buried his face in his hands.

( _ If I'm not back again this time tomorrow, carry on, carry on… _

_...as if nothing really matters…) _

* * *

The music helped, strangely enough. Inasmuch as he now felt like a voice singing in the Nowhere, rather than a mind thinking. But operating under the assumption that he had lips, a mouth... a mouth was a start, and the longer he went on, the more he thought he could feel cavities extending downwards, lungs inflating, a torso manifesting…

All imagined, of course, but being able to visualise having corporeal shape was luxury at the moment.

_ Mama, ooooooo… _ Crowley belted out for the third time, and hoped, vindictively, that She was listening and feeling sorry for what She had done to him.*

*Crowley resolutely reserved his right to blame everything and anything bad that happened to him on God. The way he saw it, if you claimed to have all the answers and an Ineffable Plan of your own devising, you could damn well take responsibility for your lapsed child stubbing his toe, couldn't you.

And this time, for no specific reason whatsoever, Crowley tripped and faltered at the next line.

The silence was a visceral thing, surging in to slash his newly-imagined torso into bloody non-pulp.

_ I don't…  _ his voice cracked, nearly broke.  _ Don't wanna… _

And suddenly, he... couldn't. Simply couldn't.

It was not that it was so very terrifying, so unimaginably soul-crushing, the concept of being dead, oh no.

But it was something that  _ was _ , unalterable and most likely forever, cutting him off from everything he loved so well, like living and breathing and Aziraphale - listed here in ascending order of love.

He couldn't sing because it was so terribly  _ true. _ He  _ didn't _ want to… to...

DIE. Said something that might have been a voice, or maybe not, from somewhere that could be behind him, but might well not be.*

*In fact, Crowley wasn't even exactly sure if what it did could be described as saying, but verbal communication and transcription of the same really was dashed impractical in the Nowhere.

Crowley whipped around. Or not. He did something, he was rather sure of that, at least.

I SOMETIMES WISH I'D NEVER BEEN BORN AT ALL, Death continued absentmindedly, in a way that might've been humming under one's breath in someone who had any breath to start with. I SEE A LITTLE… A LITTLE… OH, NEVER MIND.

And with that, Death sat down on absolutely nothing at all that he simply imagined was vaguely stool-shaped, and gave off a persistent impression of being in a maudlin mood.

(His presence, ironically, helped recall being alive substantially, and Crowley very nearly managed to envision himself entirely; even though he wasn't sure whether his legs truly had been  _ like that _ in life.)

Crowley supposed this was it. He'd been discorporated before, of course, which, for celestials, generally involved a brief flash of weightless, sightless, soundless, tasteless, everythingless nothingness, before Death announced NOT TODAY and waved them on to their respective offices.

Permanent death would likely be very different, wouldn't it. Unyielding and ultimate. A fatalistic TODAY, and an eternity of being Nowhere and Nowhen to look forward to.

_ What would Aziraphale do in such a situation, _ Crowley briefly contemplated, but since Aziraphale might currently be in a state where he shot people in the face, that didn't seem very helpful.

Well. As tempting as it seemed to just wallow in the fading of his mind, to let thought after thought slip away until he stopped existing, Crowley found that he really,  _ really _ needed to convince Death to let him go back.

(If emotions weren't so hard right now, he might be tempted to feel proud of himself for that resolute conclusion.)

Except. Oh, bloody Hell. 

_ How!? _

Crowley thought about it, and thought, and thought.*

*He briefly considered perhaps thinking  _ very hard, _ but he'd rather save that for a last resort.

It really wasn't doing much.

(We urge the Esteemed Reader to keep their no doubt very amusing comments about Crowley's attempt at a serious think rarely reaping different results to themselves. After all, it would not do to speak ill of the dead.)

But Satanbless, it couldn't hurt to try. What was Death going to do, anyway? Kill him? That ship had sailed.

So Crowley went to the barrel that contained his bravery, and peered in. Leaned over it, into it, reached out, and scraped a few morsels of pitiful residue from the very bottom of it.

And then, he bravely squared his vague idea of shoulders, and informed Death with all the firmness of a wet noodle,  _ I t-think, there's, uh, been a mistake. Maybe. Sorry. Somethings gone wrong. _

I'LL SAY. Death said morosely.

_ You do? _ Crowley might've blinked, but surprise was a rather exhausting emotion to manifest.

SOMETHING'S GONE VERY WRONG! Death complained, waving one skeletal hand about dramatically, nearly swatting Crowley if he'd recalled that he was meant to have a face in that moment. YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE THE DAY I'VE HAD...

_ Well, mine's not exactly been peaches and roses, either. _ Crowley said with rather too much snark, considering who he was speaking with; and then decided to simply carry on with his pitch.  _ You see, I'm rather sure I wasn't meant to be killed today, for one. _

FIRST OF ALL, THEY'RE OUT OF THEIR MINDS, IT'S TERRIBLE, CROWLEY*, TERRIBLE. THE WORLD URGENTLY REQUIRES WAR, FAMINE AND POLLUTION, THAT'S JUST FACTS OF LIFE. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT MANNER OF MID-EXISTENCE CRISIS THEY ARE STRUGGLING THROUGH, BUT IT TRULY ISN'T SUSTAINABLE.

*Death knew Crowley's name, of course. Death knew everybody's names, even the embarrassing middle ones** you'd never dream of telling your friends for fear of being mercilessly ridiculed.

**We know what you are thinking, Dear Reader; and yes, Death did know what the J stood for.

You are very welcome to get involved in a car accident or something similar to ask him about it, if you are willing to take one for the team in such a manner.

_ Besides, I have unfinished business. A 5000-pieces puzzle still to finish, letters to mail, best friend to save and world to put to rights, you know how it is. _

I'M NOT WORRIED ABOUT THEM, OF COURSE. I'M NOT CAPABLE OF IT. NO, I'M GOING ABOUT MY BUSINESS, AIDING SOULS IN MOVING ON, ALL AS USUAL. IT'S ONLY THAT IT'S SUCH PECULIAR BEHAVIOUR, CHARITIES AND CLEANLINESS AND NUTRITION, AND NOT KILLING EACH OTHER, WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO, CROWLEY, I ASK YOU!?

_...riiiiiight. _ Crowley said slowly, getting the feeling he was missing something crucial.  _ So, I was wondering if… well… if it was at all possible I might just… _

He pointed vaguely in a direction he hoped was not into the light. Death didn't really seem to take much notice.

SOMETHING'S WRONG WITH THE WORLD, CROWLEY, FUNDAMENTALLY WRONG.

_ Yeah, that'll be the climate change. _ Crowley's confusion really wasn't getting any better. _ About, er, my petition to let me go…? _

AND NOBODY SEEMS TO REALISE!

Resigning himself to being strategically ignored - nothing new,  _ thanks God _ \- Crowley visualized himself bolting, leaving this core of ultimate emptiness for the slightly more hospitable spheres of the discorporation planes.

He wasn't holding out much hope of it working, of course. If it really were this easy, nobody would ever stay dead, would they? Death was better than that, cleverer and quicker, and any soul that thought to flee would soon find that there was no way to outrun the end.

OH, NOW HOLD O- Crowley heard, and braced himself to be yanked back into the isolation of the Nowhere.

Instead, he slipped out, just like that, sending a ripple through reality that, if the Readers insist on having it made tangible in some form, produced a noise that sounded like a shout of "Bismillah!" into the silence.

And suddenly, all that not-existing business seemed like nothing more than a fading, faraway dream.

* * *

(And somewhere not-so-far-away-anymore, an angel in a sleek, modern bookshop lifted his head from his arms.

"...Crawly?" The angel whispered, and for a moment, just a moment, looked nearly sick with relief.

Soon enough, he would start frowning again, push himself up from the ground and resume sales, grumbling angrily under his breath.

But, for now, only for now, the angel was leaning his forehead against his folded hands, whispering  _ "thank you, thank you" _ with a voice that sounded oddly choked.

There may have been tears, and there may not have been.

But if there were…

Then they were tears of joy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing opposite!Gabriel and Beelzebubbly (nickname for zir) is like an out-of-body experience, let me tell you...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed once more, please do leave a comment!  
> (Also, the plot thickens....;))  
> ^-^ <3 <3 <3


	5. Keep Yourself Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just hit 50k on this fic - with a third still to go *at least*, somebody put me out of my misery - so have a celebratory update!  
> <3

A bodiless, formless sliver of conscience we shall, for ease of reading, refer to as Crowley, was floating in nothingness, and wondered what to do next.

He'd frankly not expected to get this far - or anywhere at all - and his valiant attempt at escape had been more of a matter of principle, really.*

*After years of boasting of the kind of things he would be throwing into Death's bony face should he ever come for him, Crowley felt like it was only right to follow through in some form.

So the-entity-that-was-roughly-Crowley-take-a-vessel-or-two did the metaphorical equivalent of leaning back, and took stock of his options.

He needed to get back to earth, first of all. The afterlife was grand, sure, lovely place, and  _ such _ a view, but… not for Crowley, no thank you.

Besides, Aziraphale was clearly in dire need of assistance. He'd been  _ selling books. _ * Crowley might have to put him out of his misery.

*And he'd killed Crowley, yes, but he was quite aware of his position on Aziraphale's list of priorities, which, at the last count, went

  1. Books
  2. Humanity
  3. Books (but paperback)
  4. The bookshop
  5. Books (select favourites)
  6. Fine dining
  7. Books (one more time for good measure)
  8. Crowley



with the constant threat of demotion hanging over Crowley's head, should Aziraphale acquire an especially gorgeous silver Regency snuffbox for his collection.

He needed a receptive body, first of all.

Acquiring one would be much easier for him than for Aziraphale, since Dagon had long since added "I shall willingly give up my corporeal form to Lord Satan and all His disciples to hitch a hike on should the need arise" to the finest print* of Satanist contracts.

*Fine print to the finer print, which, in turn, is fine print to regular fine print. There's layers upon layers of that in Hell, and even a new form of superlative to label finest-print fine print, also known as the demonlative.

Heaven-aligned humans, while generally spouting plenty of drivel about offering up their body to the Lord's Angels, were rather less inclined to actually follow through on that promise, leaving rather slim pickings. A denizen of Hell, on the other hand, could play a possession-based version of "the floor is lava" where they skipped from body to body across Trafalgar Square just by virtue of people bumping into each other.*

*Ligur still held the record, with 27 possessions in under ten minutes.

(He'd cheated and used a priest for number 12, but they were  _ demons, _ so cheating had actually made the whole thing even more impressive.)

So Crowley took what might've been a deep breath if he'd been any semblance of corporeal, opened his third (and fourth, and fifth, and seventh-and-a-half) eye, and  _ looked. _

He saw…

The bookshop, the  _ wrong _ bookshop, the  _ wrong _ Aziraphale, Soho spread out beneath him and not a single Corrupted Soul in the vicinity.

Fine. Fine. Probably residual blessings and angelic protection, this was  _ fine. _ Plenty more Satanists in the sea.

He saw…

Mayfair, the flat that wasn't really his, and still nothing, not even Mrs Henderly from 3b which Crowley just  _ knew _ could give the Legions of the Damned a run for their money.

He saw…

St James's Park, ducks fat with bread and corn, elderly people milling about and grousing about the Young People Today with just not quite enough vitriol to permanently stain their souls and open them to Satan.

He saw…

London, stretched out beneath him, loud and sparkling and colourful and _ human, _ stuffed to the brim with all manners of sin and good deeds and everything in between, and… and…

He saw, at last, a potential vessel.

Male of body, getting a little close to the expiration date but still in decent shape, wholeheartedly worshipping Satan and situated…

...in Parliament. Crowley blessed loudly. A  _ politician. _

Now, the Esteemed Reader might point out that there was nothing fundamentally wrong with politicians, and, generally, Crowley would agree. Nothing against them as a whole, some of his best friends were politicians,* and so forth.

*Or, rather, his singular best friend was; but the less said about Aziraphale's brief stint in government during the summer of 1893, the better.

However, the sort of politicians on Hell's pay ledger were generally of a more unpleasant breed, and Infernal Affairs had mediated more than one disagreement over whether or not they shouldn't look into distancing themselves from them, and maybe create a new circle of Hell because the other sinners were scared of them.

Possessing  _ that _ sort of politician wasn't unlike stepping into a seedy movie theatre on the wrong side of town; the floors stuck to your feet as if trying to suck you under, everything reeked with a certain kind of odour that could never exist in the outside world, there was a murder on the screen and a couple having sex in the last row (or vice versa), and you were reasonably certain this entire establishment was just a front for some criminal organisation or another.

It gave Crowley what he was reasonably sure were goosebumps, even if they were a bit on the scale-y side.

But nothing for it.

_ The things I do for love of that silly angel, _ Crowley sighed, or maybe thought - there didn't appear to be much distinction in his current state - and dived in.

* * *

Hitching a ride in a living, breathing human body was, generally, a lot like putting on a jumper while someone was already wearing it; which wasn't exactly pleasant even if your body type was best described as "noodle figure".

Therefore,  _ "Ow," _ said Crowley, and blinked someone else's eyes.  _ "Budge up a little, will you?" _

"Oh, gracious." The politician said, in crisp, posh tones that would make Professor Higgins weep with joy. "Lord Crawly, begging your pardon, but… is that you, sir?"

_ "Er." _ Crowley frowned the politician's brow. It was nicer in here than he'd assumed, really. No popcorn crunching underfoot, for a start.  _ "Sort of? I mean, I'm starting to suspect that I am a version of him, but not really as you and others apparently know him - me - so, the question we need to ask is, what is identity? A place in society, our surroundings, existence, that we, as we are, belong into; or our thoughts, ideas, the beliefs we hold? A name, a reputation? A past, or a future? It all comes down to existential philosophy, and I don't think I'm drunk enough for that, and neither are you. Name's Crowley, cheers." _

The politician, being a remarkably well-adjusted breed of Satanist, and even-more-remarkably wise for a politician, chose not to question any of this, and instead wordlessly walked over to the sideboard to pour the two of them a bit of scotch.

(Crowley grudgingly realised he might actually grow to like the man someday, which wasn't something he usually thought about Satanists, or politicians, and certainly not a combination of the two.)

They drank - it was remarkably good scotch, the type to settle warm and heavy just below your sternum and spread vague contentment from there - and immediately felt much better, insofar as was possible to improve the situation without Crowley vacating the politician's temporarily-shared body.*

*Or the politician vacating it. Crowley himself wasn't picky in that regard, but he felt the man might be. Humans, by and large, were rather unhealthily attached to having corporeal form, and didn't take kindly to any attempts to wean them from this strange dependency, no matter how well-meant.

"Very well, then." The politician set down the glass. On a coaster. Badness, what had Crowley gotten himself into. "I am yours to command, Lord Crowley. Move me as you see fit, all my means serve your ends;* however, should I be required to lay down my life to Our Lord Satan, I would like a few moments to settle my affairs, if that were at all possible?"

*You could  _ hear _ the semicolon. Judas Christ.

_ "Ngk. Don't think it'll come to that, no worries." _ Crowkey would feel a little sick, if the scotch weren't so exceptionally good. He lifted the glass to his mouth again. " _ You'll be just fine, uh…" _

"Shadwell. MP Ephraim Hemlock Shadwell, of the Fife-Shadwells." The politician said, and took a sip just in time for Crowley to spit it out again through orifices that normally shouldn't be dealing with liquids.

* * *

_ "Nah, s'fine, s'fine," _ Crowley gasped, trying to rid their shared nose of traces of alcohol with MP Shadwell's pocket handkerchief.  _ "Just… know someone of that name. Strange association. Sorry." _

"It's quite alright, old chap."

_ "Even the voice-" _ The handkerchief had Shadwell's initials embroidered in one corner. Part of Crowley really rather wanted to laugh, if his airways - airways that were, for the time being, his - weren't already sobbing in pain.  _ "Well. Aside from the non-accent. You don't happen to have a lost twin, do you, Mr Shadwell?" _

"I don't believe so, sir."

_ "And you're a Satanist?" _

"Wiccan, technically, My Lord."

At this, Crowley  _ did _ laugh.

_ "You couldn't make it up!" _ He snorted.  _ "I'll have to introduce you to 'my' Shadwell one of these days, bet you'd get on like a stake on fire!" _

"...very good, sir?" Shadwell muttered, slightly perplexed at the amusement, while Crowley was already planning to film the entire encounter and put it on YouTube. The Tracy woman would probably find it all terribly funny, and Aziraphale, well, Aziraphale would be  _ entirely _ scandalized…

...oh.

Crowley sobered.*

*Metaphorically. Literally, he still had plenty of alcoholic substances spread over various membranes.

No, Aziraphale wouldn't be scandalized, wouldn't be outraged, wouldn't even be fondly exasperated. Aziraphale wouldn't be  _ anything _ of the sorts, because he was entirely out of his mind at the moment; and it was down to Crowley to fix this regrettable state of affairs.

_ "Right." _ He clapped Shadwell's hands together.  _ "Mr Shadwell, this is what your Dark Lord commands you: we're taking whichever means of transportation available to you, and we're driving over to Soho. There's a bookshop there, I'll give you the address on the way, and we'll. Hah. Commit… sins. Yes! Sins there. Terrible sins. Awful sins. Would curdle your blood if I elaborated, so I don't. For your sake." _

"Naturally, sir." MP Shadwell said diplomatically, in a voice that suggested he was rather concerned for his possessee's mental health.

_ "Heigh ho." _ Anthony Crowley said, and went over to the door.

Outside, Death was waiting for them.

No, Esteemed Reader, we are not being obscure and metaphorical here. This is not a philosophical observation, or, God Forbid,  _ foreshadowing. _

Death was literally, physically, standing just outside MP Ephraim Shadwell's office, cloak and skull and air of inevitability and all, one skeletal hand raised as if to knock..

_ "NGK." _ Crowley said very loudly, and slammed the door shut again.

_ "Shadwell?" _ He muttered tonelessly, back pressed against the door's rather exquisite panelling, and heart hammering at a rate that was really rather unhealthy at Shadwell's age.  _ "Remember when you asked for a bit of time to settle your affairs?" _

"...yes, sir?"

_ "Well. You've got." _ He stepped away from the door, appraising how long it would withstand violent assault by a scythe-wielding intruder, and then recalled that Death was above such mundane things as requiring entry points.  _ "Uh. About five seconds to make your peace with the universe." _

"Oh." Shadwell said faintly. "I see."

_ "Sorry." _ Crowley winced.

And then, Death was there - though, of course, he had always been there, really.

YOU MIGHT'VE AT LEAST LET ME FINISH MY SENTENCE BEFORE RUSHING OFF. Death grumbled.

_ "Eek." _ Shadwell* said.

*Yes. Shadwell. Definitely Shadwell. And not Crowley at all.

I AM DEATH, CROWLEY, AND I AM NOT TO BE TRIFLED WITH. He seemed taller, somehow, vaster, and wings of darkness spread out behind him, casting terrible writhing shadows onto the walls. YOU RAN FROM ME, THOUGHT I COULD BE SO EASILY FLED FROM, HIDING IN ANOTHER'S BODY. BUT THERE IS NOTHING ANY HUMAN, ANGEL, OR DEMON CAN DO TO ESCAPE ME WHEN I COME TO CLAIM A SOUL. YOU ARE MINE, CROWLEY, TO DO WITH AS I PLEASE.

Crowley closed Shadwell's eyes, and pictured Aziraphale, the Aziraphale from last night, smiling oh so softly as his lips wrapped around Crowley's name like a benediction. Making him laugh, making him frown, arguing and agreeing and standing in gardens together, Eden and the Dowling's, wings and umbrellas moving to shield him…

_ No, no, you see, I'm HIS. _ Crowley meant to say, but knew it was too late.

He opened his eyes again, because looking Death in the eye at the last was another thing he had boasted excessively about, and was committed to following through on.

THEREFORE… Death pointed a single bony finger straight at him. I'LL LET YOU OFF THIS TIME. BUT DON'T DO IT AGAIN, ALRIGHT?

_ "Whot." _ Crowley said, though it mixed somewhat with Shadwell's cultured "Beg pardon?" into something quite like " _ Whot _ don!?"

YOU HEARD ME. Death folded his wings behind his back, shifting uneasily from one bony foot to the other. BEHAVE.

_ "You're letting me off!? Just like that!?" _

More uneasy shifting. ...YES?

_ "But…" _ Crowley sputtered.  _ "But!" _

"What, I believe, the gentledemon is attempting to point out," Shadwell interjected smoothly, and Crowley really  _ was _ growing fond of him. Much better than regular Shadwell, who only would've sworn at something and probably blamed an unsuspecting minority for it all. "Is that you. Well. Begging your pardon, O Manifestation of The End, but you haven't previously been known for… making exceptions."

_ "Yeah." _ Crowley agreed. _ "It's actually, uh, really your thing that you come for everything and everyone, in a very, hng, inevitable sort of way. Death and taxes, you know?" _

I EMPLOY AN ACCOUNTANT FOR THAT SORT OF THING.* Death said, a little helplessly.

*Death's tax accountant was named Albert, and could trace his lineage back through the ages to an anthropomorphic sleeping pill which had been turned human by a very disinterested fairy and fallen in love with the local crofter's most boring daughter, which ought to tell the Esteemed Reader something about the kind of person he was, if "tax accountant" hadn't already tipped them off.

In fact, he was so incredibly unremarkable in every way that he'd bored everyone around him to death,  _ including _ himself, which was how he'd made Death's acquaintance.

Death, in turn, had taken one look at him, wrestled with the sudden urge to yawn, and decided that he couldn't possibly inflict someone the likes of  _ Albert _ on the other departed souls, it simply wouldn't be cricket.

So Albert had been offered a job, which he'd accepted and would dutifully carry out for all eternity.

It was boring, mind-numbing work, doing Death's taxes, and it would never,  _ ever, _ end.

(Albert, privately, believed he'd gone to paradise; which, again, tells the Esteemed Reader far more about his character than they really needed to know about a man as boring as him.)

Crowley stared straight at the Esteemed Reader, since he'd rather wanted someone to make resigned eye contact with, and figured that there was surely some fourth wall or another he could break.

ANYWAY! Death said in a way that would probably be "very loudly", if he was the type to actually  _ say _ things in a conventional way at all. CONSIDER IT A "GET OUT OF AFTERLIFE FREE" CARD, AND DON'T QUESTION IT.

Then, with a mumble of  _ HONESTLY, HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD ABOUT GIFT HORSES BEFORE, _ Death made a dismissive gesture, and, without much fuss or fanfare, Crowley was back in his usual corporation.*

*It felt a little strange and too-orderly, like someone cleaning your room while you were out and putting things  _ nearly, _ but never  _ quite, _ back in the right place.

"Lord Crawly!" Shadwell startled.

And then tacked on "sir", because he truly was  _ that _ polite.

"It's Crow- oh Satan." Crowley startled right back. "Is this supposed to be  _ funny!?" _

MP Shadwell looked like… well.  _ Shadwell. _

(Shadwell after a run through the dry cleaner, perhaps - Hell, the entire My-Fair-Lady experience, really - but Shadwell nonetheless, down to the mole at his left wrist and the fact that one of his knees was knobblier than the other. He looked like someone had described Shadwell while carefully dancing around all the bits and bobs that made Shadwell frankly  _ atrocious _ to be around, and constructed his better-mannered, far more well-groomed clone.)

"You look  _ exactly _ like him!" Crowley exploded. Hey, he was high-strung at the best of times, and it had been a trying day,  _ alright!? _ "If I didn't know better, I'd say you  _ actually _ were-"

I'M SUSPECTING HE  _ IS. _ Death interrupted wearily, having found the scotch and drained half of it into Satan Knows Where - the only certainty was that there wasn't any sort of digestive tract involved. JUST LIKE MY COLLEAGUES ARE DIFFERENT, AND YET ALMOST THE SAME.

"Whot." Crowley reiterated.

MP Shadwell said nothing, only looked at Death the way a tiny little field mouse watched a bird of prey circling overhead; and then, with something almost like desperation, at the scotch steadily disappearing into the ether around Death's non-mouth.

REALITY ISN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE, CROWLEY. Death said seriously. OR, AT LEAST, NOT WHAT YOU AND I REMEMBER IT TO BE. THE WORLD HAS GONE ALL…

A vague hand motion.

UPSIDE-DOWN AND TOPSY-TURVY.

"Aziraphale." Crowley breathed, pacing agitatedly. "And Shadwell, and, and  _ bloody _ Bob Ross too! Opposites! Polar opposites!"

SO IT APPEARS. Death nodded. AND WE ARE THE ONLY ONES TO REMAIN ENTIRELY UNAFFECTED. EVEN MY FELLOW HORS-

"Do we?" Crowley interrupted. Then realised that he had  _ interrupted Death, _ and subsequently decided it could all go to Hell, he'd died today and it hadn't stuck, evidently consequences weren't a thing that really applied to him anymore.

(Shadwell, meanwhile, had gone to sit down somewhere and pray to whichever deity happened to be listening in. Ideally the Moon Goddess or the Horned God, but with Death sitting in your plushest leather armchair, the time for pickiness had come and gone.)

DO WE WHAT?

"Remain unaffected, just because we also remember." Crowley didn't recall ever feeling and behaving any different than now, but he supposed that's exactly what his bizarro-version would be thinking of himself, too.*

*Though that version might also wear a goatee for easy recognition, if the telly had taught him anything.

In any case, his concern was less with himself, and more with…

OH, DON'T BE RIDICULOUS. Death looked at him with something that might be indignation, or just unflattering shadows thrown into his eyesockets.

(Shadwell went over to open a window. Fresh air might do him good.)

IF I  _ WERE _ AFFECTED, I WOULD SURELY BE EXHIBITING THE SAME OUTLANDISH BEHAVIOURS AS WAR AND FAMINE AND PESTILENCE, GOING ENTIRELY AGAINST MY ESTABLISHED NATURE AT EVERY TURN. WHICH I OBVIOUSLY  _ DO NOT. _ MEANING I AM PERFECTLY FINE. OBVIOUSLY.

"Obviously," Crowley echoed.

  
  


And then, he threw MP Shadwell out the window.

  
  


Death, outlandishly and entirely against his established nature, caught him halfway down.

"So. Unaffected?" Crowley grinned, leaning his elbows on the windowsill and peering down.

_ ENTIRELY. _ Death glared.* IT WASN'T HIS TIME YET, THAT IS ALL.

*Seeing as this was, well, Death, there was in fact a nonzero chance that his looks  _ could _ kill, though recent revelations suggested that the actual likelihood of permanent harm coming to Crowley was far lower than previous statistics would imply.

"Hm-hm." Crowley smiled.

Shadwell, for his part, contemplated making a rather undignified noise; but seeing as he was in full sight of a handful of his peers ambling along beneath him, who were already throwing him quite odd looks - as one would, as one would, seeing one's colleague hovering an uncertain number of feet in the air and carried by the Angel of Death, Creation's Shadow etcetera - so he opted against it.

Death very gently set him down on the pavement, lamely admonishing him about NOT LETTING DEMONS THROW YOU OUT OF WINDOWS AGAIN, before disappearing into thin air and a vague air of being ashamed of oneself.

"Well." MP Shadwell began.

Stiffened his upper lip, which had begun to quiver dangerously.

"Well. I  _ never."  _ He said, and then went on his merry way.

Crowley, for his part, went back to his original plan, and hurried to the door.

Opposite-world or not, he had to  _ fix _ it all somehow, Death and his flat and the whole bally world while he was at it, and…

...and he couldn't possibly imagine accomplishing that without Aziraphale at his side, steadfast and tender and  _ not selling anything at his store. _

So, the bookshop - again - it was.

* * *

Aziraphale was-

No. You know what, Esteemed Reader? No.

We can't, in good conscience, call the angel in question Aziraphale anymore, not now that even Crowley has accepted that their differences amount to more than simply a hit to the head and a restyling.

After a brainstorming session, in which names such as Antiziraphale, Fell, Erziraphael, and Elahpariza were discussed, we've settled on the simplest option:

And angel who is Not Aziraphale is, obviously,  _ Notziraphale. _

So, Notziraphale was sitting at the counter with his sleek and functional notebook, filling out an excel spreadsheet of this month's sales in a way that ultimately amounted to tax fraud.*

*If Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs ever found a way to slog through Notziraphale's intentionally-terrible bookkeeping without losing their will to live, the bookshop would be in serious trouble.

Blessedly, there was little chance of that ever happening. Notziraphale  _ merged cells at random. _ 'Nuff said.

And if the very edges of his eyes looked just a little reddened, well, that was only a trick of the light and the Esteemed Reader is advised to make no further mention of it whatsoever.*

*Likewise, he would have us point out that he wasn't waiting for anyone, no matter what it might look like, and especially not for Crawly.

Customers! Yes, he was actually waiting for customers. And no-one else.

The door announced a visitor.

When people first encountered Notziraphale, they assumed three things about him.

One, that he was  _ foreign, _ in a vague sense of not-belonging-here;

Two, that he was much less intelligent than he was trying to appear to be;

And three, that he was gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide, because some universal truths simply transcend realities.

Of these three assumptions, two are entirely false.

The way Notziraphale saw it, living on a planet for over 6000 years awarded you right of citizenship, and he certainly belonged on earth more than Heaven, with all of Gabriel's desperate attempts at board game nights and >shudder< art therapy.

As for the gay bit, well, it's been long established that angels don't necessarily work that way, and Notziraphale had foregone the effort* of choosing a label.

*No pun intended, and also a little misleading. Notziraphale had definitely made an Effort, capitalised; it improved the way one's trousers sat, and the way he saw it, if you paid exorbitant amounts of money for stylish trousers, you ought to fill them with something suitable.

As for the third… that was debatable.

Notziraphale  _ was _ intelligent, the way angels simply were; and yet, sometimes, he felt like such a fool.

And this moment, clenching his hand to a fist as not to tremble upon seeing Crawly again, Notziraphale felt  _ especially _ foolish.

"Crawly." He greeted coolly, not looking up from his screen. "I presume Beelzebub sent-"

"WHAT THE HELL, AZIRAPHALE!?"

Notziraphale glanced over to Crawly, panting and clutching his side, looking… strangely put together, despite the wild look in his eyes.

Considering his usual scruffy* appearance, this was a marked improvement, overall. Notziraphale didn't even think there was any mould growing anywhere on him! Miracles  _ did _ happen, it seemed like.

*Notziraphale really thought a number of far less flattering and more descriptive words, but we feel like the Esteemed Readers' innocence should be preserved for but a moment longer.

"Yes?" He responded mildly.

"WHAT THE HELL!" Crowley reiterated, making a complicated and rather confusing gesture that was nonetheless very clearly referring to what Notziraphale thought of as "the unfortunate incident by the east window".

"Ah." Notziraphale closed the notebook. "Well,  _ that _ really wasn't my fault."

An incredulous splutter. "NOT YOUR-"

"You should've  _ ducked, _ Crawly!" Notziraphale snapped. "Whyever didn't you!?"

"Well, YOU should've NOT SHOT me!" Crawly glared, pacing agitatedly.

(Had he  _ shaved? _ It had all gone by so fast before, and Notziraphale hadn't fully taken in his unusually clean appearance.)

_ You shouldn't have mocked me with saying… what you said. _ Notziraphale meant to counter, but bit it down.

(It simply hadn't been fair, that strategy. Notziraphale had been perfectly in the right to get a little furious over it.)

"Oh, for God's sake,  _ I didn't mean to, Crawly!" _ He hissed. "Am I to blame if you don't duck!? I gave you a time limit! I telegraphed my movements clearly! I played as fair as one could expect me to, quite unlike-"

"Play fair!?" Crawly let out a sound Notziraphale had never heard out of him before, half hysterical laugh and half a sob. "Is that what we-  _ Judas Christ, _ angel! And for the last time,  _ my name is Crowley!" _

He slumped against a nearby bookshelf.

"Look. This sounds insane, I know it does. But I think I'm from- Satan, it's ridiculous. I'm from a different reality, alright? That's why I don't know the rules of… whatever weird murder game you're playing with your  _ Crawly. _ Why I came in here with no intention except to enlist your help. Why I didn't fight back. In my world, you and I are f-" his voice cracked  _ "friends. _ We helped bring up the Antichrist together and prevented the Apocalypse, and I really do love y-  _ him. _ I never lied, we were just… misunderstanding each other. And I have no idea how to fix any of this, I only know that if there's a way, I won't find it without… well, without  _ you." _

Notziraphale blinked.

There were tears of quiet desperation in Crawly's eyes, and no onion in sight.

Did… did he honestly...

...did he honestly expect Notziraphale to  _ believe _ that!?

Notziraphale mentally took a step back, and critically assessed the situation.

One thing was for certain: Crawly wasn't telling the truth.

(The mere concept was preposterous, frankly, and Notziraphale refused to even consider it.)

But, then again, Crawly certainly seemed to  _ mean _ it, and gave no sign of breaking character. Meaning it was most likely some strange psychological tactic, full immersion into the character to lull Notziraphale into a false sense of security; or, alternatively, drive him mad simply through insisting on this utter poppycock of a story.

Oh, but he would be  _ damned _ if he gave the bastard the satisfaction.

"Ah, of course." Notziraphale smiled sweetly. "That explains everything!"

"You- really? You believe me?" Crawly blinked, entirely taken aback.

Notziraphale's grin widened.  _ Two can play at silly buggers, you filthy demon. _

"I'm acknowledging that it is the most reasonable explanation for your outlandish behaviour." He said airily. "It seems prudent enough to trust you for the time being."

_ As if. _

Crawly squinted at him, not unlike the people of Sparta had squinted at the Trojans and their wooden bunny rabbit.*

*No, we will not elaborate on that legend, nor tell you of Helena and her face that sunk a thousand ships.

Notziraphale snapped his fingers, and held a new pair of sunglasses out, a mockery of a peace offering.

"...right." Crawly began smiling, and it was a work of art, it really was, so hesitant and hopeful. For all that Notziraphale hated him, there was no denying his acting talent. "Thanks, angel."

Crawly took the glasses. Their fingers brushed.

Notziraphale studiously ignored it.

"You're welcome… Crowley."

They smiled at each other.

It honestly made Notziraphale feel a little sick.

"So!" Crawly clapped his hands together. Where on earth did he find the energy to keep this pretence at energetic cheerfulness up? Notziraphale didn't think he'd seen him genuinely grinning half as much in all the years since they first met. "Putting reality to rights. Ideas?"

_ Really? _ Notziraphale very nearly rolled his eyes.

"I'm afraid we have other priorities, Cra-Crowley." Humouring him would take more effort than anticipated, clearly. "Crowley."

"We do?"

"As I was initially saying before you so rudely interrupted me, has Beelzebub informed you of the latest joint assignment?"

"...we have joint assignments?" Crawly pulled an excellently confused face.

"Oh, don't you have those in _ your reality?" _ Notziraphale only barely stopped himself from making air quotes. "Yes, Crowley,  _ we do. _ We have one right now. Some drivel about signs of a second Apocalypse; obvious nonsense, but they want us to investigate."

Crawly frowned. "Is that an actual possibility?"

"Since only the Antichrist may start the End of the World, I rather doubt it." Notziraphale shrugged. "I wouldn't presume to guarantee anything, but I assure you Warlock has been taught to keep both his powers and temper in check."

"Warlock?" Crawly echoed. He seemed to do a lot of that. "The Antichrist was  _ actually _ Warlock for you?"

"Actually?" Oh goodness, now Notziraphale was doing it, too.

"Right. Right." Crawly threw himself into one of the strategically-uncomfortable armchairs,* and explained about Warlock and Adam and teaching the wrong boy.

*Sometimes, people came to read in the shop without buying anything. Notziraphale, to say the least, Did Not Approve, and did whatever was in his power to prevent that, including trips to the opposite-version of IKEA to pick the least-comfy comfy chair.

Notziraphale listened attentively, wondering what the Heaven to make of  _ this. _

Yet another ridiculous story, perfectly idiotic, but so  _ detailed! _ Told with such conviction!

(Not to mention that yet another of their rules dictated that any and all joint missions were concluded perfunctorily and without fuss, as speedily as possible. They didn't fight on missions, nor tricked the other.)

So, was this Crawly's way of making a genuine suggestion within the confines of his little game?

It wasn't…  _ impossible. _

Notziraphale had to confess that he hadn't concerned himself much with the child between the ages of one hour and six years, and…

The thing with angels and demons was, sometimes, when they weren't paying attention, their powers discreetly slipped reality a few pounds and made things exactly as they  _ believed _ they should be.

Meaning, if he - and all the legions of the Blessed and Damned - had only  _ believed _ the boy to be the Antichrist, chances were good all those faint stirrings of power that Notziraphale had taken such great care to squash in the bud could be chalked up to what angelic scholars called the make-believe effect.*

*Notziraphale had spent an embarrassingly long time chatting with the Easter bunny until someone pointed out to him that the supernatural entity in question didn't actually exist, at which point old Rabbington vanished and never appeared again.

And the real boy, powers unchecked and running wild, had been ticking* all this time.

*Metaphorically. Despite their immense destructive powers, little boys were  _ not _ time bombs.

Whatever Crawly's endgame plan was… this was worth looking into.

Meaning they would have to go back to where all of this had started, twelve long years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes what I like to call Act 1: The Beginnening.  
> I've expositioned all over the place, established some base facts, and though there's much world yet to build, we're ready to move the plot ahead!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, leave a comment, and thank you for (still) reading this fic!  
> ^-^


	6. I Lose Control And Shiver Deep Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is a Big, Important one, with a Big revelation...  
> >evil laughter<  
> Enjoy! >:)

"D'you have a car, then?" Crowley couldn't quite stop staring at Notziraphale, at the just-slightly-off way he moved and talked. It was a bit mesmerising, to be frank, even if the whole brutal murder incident had put a bit of a damper on Crowley's sex drive.

At least Notziraphale believed him now, even if they were prioritising the potential Apocatwice over the larger picture.*

*There were few pictures larger than the giant landscape oil painting titled simply "End of the World" in the gallery of great catastrophes, but "Total Change of the World" would probably make the cut.

"No, I don't drive." Notziraphale retorted curtly as he locked up the shop. He seemed to enjoy being curt. Tentative truce didn't mean affection, apparently. "Why?"

"Damn." Crowley sighed. "Someone stole my car."

Notziraphale raised an entirely unsympathetic eyebrow. "Seriously? That old rustbucket?"

"Oi!" Crowley snapped. "Don't call it that!"

"Whyever not?" A scoff. "You hate that thing."

Crowley swallowed hard.

"Oh." He said hoarsely, struggling terribly with the idea of a world where the Bentley wasn't as loved and revered as it deserved.

"I can't possibly fathom why you haven't turned that wreck-just-waiting-to-happen into scrap metal yet." Notziraphale continued, either not picking up on Crowley's distress or delighting in it.

(The second option, most likely.)

"Frankly, I wouldn't steal that car if someone paid me to do it."

"Yeah, rub salt in why don't you." Crowley grumbled. "I'll have you know that's an  _ antique, _ and invaluable among the right collectors."

"Oh, I'm sure there are some fascinating rust subcultures growing on it." Notziraphale smirked. "But outside the scientific community? Please."

(At this point, we invite the Esteemed Reader to recall the Volkswagen bus in the Bentley's usual parking spot, and to draw their own conclusions based on this information.)

"The fact remains," Crowley said, trying very hard to be the bigger man-shaped being rather than poking Notziraphale in the side until he admitted defeat, "I've no car, you've no car. Should we take a cab?"

"Absolutely not!" Notziraphale snapped. "The fare until Tadfield Manor would be  _ exorbitant.*  _ We're taking-"

*Evidently, running a profitable and growing business had instilled this version of Aziraphale with some measure of financial responsibility.

Good for him.

"Oh no." Said Crowley.

"-public-"

"Please, angel, no."

"-transport."

Crowley groaned.

* * *

To put it plain, Crowley didn't take public transport.

_ Ever. _

He considered it a personal insult towards his beautiful, gorgeous, perfect Bentley, and the couple times he'd been on a bus to meet Aziraphale there had been the sole contact with the concept.

Public transport, the way Crowley saw it, happened to other people. People that  _ weren't him, _ specifically.

And yet, here he was, sitting in the Picadilly line (eastbound) between a strangely acerbic and cold version of the angel he loved, and a woman he rather suspected was really a heap of rats that had achieved sentience, regretting everything that had led him here.

Life was funny like that sometimes, wasn't it.

"I hate this." Crowley whined. "My seat is sticky."

"You should see the floor." Notziraphale shot back, appearing to play a game.

Of the app variety.

On his phone.

Which was smart.

Because of course it was.

_ (Satan, Crowley hated the opposite-world sometimes.) _

"This is awful. And if that woman says  _ 'Mind the gap' _ one more time, I'll…"

"Kill her?" Notziraphale provided, with a frankly disturbing undertone. As if he actually thought Crowley was capable of something of the sort.

"...no. Be very cross with her." He evaded lamely.

Notziraphale didn't respond, and the ensuing silence was tense enough to make one physically ache.

Crowley awkwardly cast his eyes about for something else to complain about.

And blinked.

"...is that Gabriel and Beelzebub sharing a milkshake over there?"

"Oh for…" Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Just be quiet and enjoy the ride, why don't you?"

* * *

Crowley peered up at the departures board, and was satisfied to see that every single train was running late.

Yes,  _ all _ of them.

Even the one that was only going the one station to King's- er, Queen's Cross, and the ones that were starting here. All. Late.*

*Clearly, together with any Aziraphale-shaped entities being perceived as gay, the British Railway System and its general organisation presented another fixture across realities. 

Existence could be populated by sentient jelly cubes, and the Aziraphale of that world would still be wobbling very gay-ly as he was waiting for his twenty-minutes-late train.

"Delays were one of mine, you know." Crowley mentioned faux-casually, absolutely not preening, and anyone who said otherwise was a dirty liar.

"Were they." Notziraphale muttered distractedly, convincing the ticket machine with a very stern look that now was  _ not _ the time to be obstinate. "Doesn't seem quite your usual style, does it? Not enough casualties."

"Gee, Aziraphale, tell us what you  _ really _ think." Crowley muttered, absolutely not hurt, and anyone who said otherwise etcetera. "That's  _ Crawly  _ you're thinking of, not me."

"How could I forget!" Notziraphale probably hadn't meant to look like he was rolling his eyes  _ quite _ that hard. They'd probably just been a little dry or something.*

*A  _ something  _ that may or may not be foreshadowing.

"I'm really more of a minor-annoyance kind of guy." Crowley made it a point to drape himself somewhat-appealingly over the side of the ticket machine. "Do you have any  _ idea _ of the frustration a single delayed train generates? Oodles*, Aziraphale! And now, imagine, five times that, ten times-" he counted the trains on the departure board "-twenty-seven times that! It could power half the Pit at once, just  _ one _ day of delays! It's marvellous, and a shame Hell isn't properly capitalising on it."

*An oodle was a Hellish measurement, amounting to seven Heavenly pounds, or half a bunch and thirty-three bitties, give or take a pinch.

Notziraphale was looking at him like he'd sprouted another head.

Well. Actually, multiple heads were quite commonplace to celestials, so, maybe, like he'd just grown another halo was closer to the mark.

"Quite the entrepreneur, Crowley." He finally said. "Aren't you."

"Errngh," Crowley responded suavely, and flailed most elegantly as his elbow slid off the side of the ticket machine.

Aziraphale might've caught him.

Notziraphale snorted, and stepped over him with the tickets* stuffed into his pockets.

*Since Notziraphale had simply chosen the cheapest option available, they were very much the wrong tickets; however, ticket inspectors were something that happened to other people, as far as he was concerned, so that was alright.

Crowley scrambled up, and hurried after him, quite satisfied with himself.

(Not that they needed to hurry. Their train was - according to the board that was also delightfully tricky to decipher - roughly 27 minutes late, and counting.)

He had the feeling he and Notziraphale were going to get along just swell, now that they had cleared up the identity misunderstanding.

Oh yes. Just  _ splendidly.* _

*Can you hear it, Esteemed Reader? Over the noise of the crowded station, the screech of arriving trains, the echoing announcement; a faint, foreboding whisper?

_ That _ is the sound of foreshadowing, and it's getting louder with every passing second.

* * *

The London-Liverpool 11:45 through Oxfordshire crankily crept up to the platform at a 32 minute delay,* giving off the distinct impression of really wanting nothing to do with such ghastly things as passengers, and having always wanted to become a freight train instead, anyway.

*The train conductor, who was still rather new to his job, actually received a gentle reprimand over it.

After all,  _ only _ 32 minutes, next the passengers would expect the trains to be  _ on time, _ Heaven Help, and where would we be then!?

"After you!" Crowley mocked a bow, and mimed holding open the door for Notziraphale.

He was, of course, being perfectly sincere in sentiment, even if the execution was playful enough not to betray it. A self-defence measure, most of all, because anything else really would be terribly  _ telling. _

Notziraphale shot him another one of those deeply puzzled looks, and stepped onto the train.

Couldn't blame him, Crowley supposed. Satan Knows, he'd been thrown by Notziraphale in the beginning, and still was, sometimes, when he leaned so casually against something, looking like he'd just stepped off of the cover of a business magazine, and watching Crowley like a particularly intense hawk.

He had no idea what Crawly was like, in the grand scheme of things as well as the little habits and idiosyncrasies; only that reason dictated it was very plainly Not Like He Was. Even after accepting that they were not the same person, that was probably still quite jarring.

(Crowley paused halfway through the carriage door to tilt his head this way and that, experimentally snapping his fingers next to his ear. He could've  _ sworn _ he'd heard some faint, foreboding sound just then. Had to be the wind.*

*Or  _ foreshadowing.) _

The 11:45 (now 12:21, having gained four additional minutes of delay since it was mentioned last) to Liverpool normally only had carriages filled with rows of seats. None of that little-compartments nonsense the Esteemed Reader may have seen in Harry Potter or Miss Marple, the one with the train, you know the one, where the doctor was the murderer? Yeah, that one.

And yet, it seemed like nobody had informed the 12:22 (yes, one minute more) of that.

It had precisely  _ one _ secluded compartment, and despite being right by the doors, teens eager for a sweaty fumble with their first boyfriend/girlfriend as well as prospective murderers and people Simply Done With The World passed it by without a second glance.

This compartment existed solely at Notziraphale's behest, and opened obediently to let him and Crowley enter, pointedly slamming the door shut and drawing the curtain* behind them.

*Featuring a stylish sort of pattern that was Distinctly Not Tartan.

Crowley flopped down onto one of the comfy benches, grateful to get the weight of his only-recently-recorporated feet.

Notziraphale opted for sitting down next to him rather than opposite, watching him with a strange sort of intensity, as if he half - more than half - expected a surprise attack at any second.

"What? Said Crowley, and then again, louder, over the sounds of the train departing the station.*

*And the sound of  _ foreshadowing. _

"Nothing." Notziraphale said, in the same tone one would accuse someone of murdering their firstborn child. "Nothing at all."

And then he continued watching him like a sharply-dressed heron with his eyes on an especially vicious mouse.

(That look was _doing_ _things_ to Crowley. Indecent, fantasising, oddly-stimulating-yet-entirely-inappropriate _things._ It was just awful.)

"Right. Hng." Crowley shifted in his seat, trying very hard to subtly adjust his trousers, even though there wasn't very much, er,  _ wiggle room _ available. "So. Er. You and Crawly. Joint missions, eh?"

Notziraphale didn't respond.

"S'funny." Crowley bravely soldiered on, trying to keep up at least a weak semblance of conversation. "Me and, uh, my Aziraphale, we were never really  _ tasked _ to work together. We just. Did, I suppose. Side of our own, and all that - until we gave our superiors the two-fingered salute, that is. Guess it's the opposite for you two, then?"

"...sure." Notziraphale pulled the kind of expression where smiles went to die. "Opposites. Makes  _ perfect _ sense, doesn't it."

Outside, the buildings flew past, soon to make way to the countryside. Crowley tried to focus on that, rather than the strangely intense way he was still being watched.

* * *

"Say, Crowley, demon…" Notziraphale finally said, and  _ oh, _ that look in his eyes was at last familiar. Crowley remembered it from the rare occasions on which they played board or card games together, a hint of shrewd calculation when it was Aziraphale's turn, usually indicating that he was about to cheat.

"Let me be absolutely certain I got this right… you and I  _ get along _ in this other world?

"...yeah?" Crowley confirmed a little uncertainly.

"Really get along?" Notziraphale pressed, a very peculiar note to it.

He didn't  _ actually _ say "you love him", but the way he wasn't saying it was very, very  _ loud. _

"Hngreeersghsfg." Crowley explained, and ducked his head a little, blush draping itself all over his cheeks.

Notziraphale looked at him strangely.

(Or perhaps, that was simply how this version always looked. Crowley hardly knew anymore.)

He reached out, with a detached curiosity that was the exact opposite of the myriad of feelings usually swirling in Aziraphale's eyes, and brushed his fingers along Crowley's flush-reddened cheekbone.

The pads were coarse, and it was  _ wrong wrong wrong, _ but Crowley still shivered.

Notziraphale's eyes widened... and something cruel and playful sparked in them.

"Oh, I  _ see." _ He placed his entire palm against Crowley's cheek, and grinned at the resulting flinch. "Your  _ friend, _ in this  _ other reality, _ am I? Tell me, demon, are you  _ actually _ bedding that other version of mine, or do you merely wish you did?"

Crowley spluttered.

"A virginal reaction, if I've ever seen one!" Notziraphale laughed, dark and unpleasant. "That's a no, then. Wicked thing, I'd scold you for coveting me, if it wasn't likely you'd rather enjoy that."

Crowley really should've expected that. His* angel hadn't picked up on Crowley's less-than-chaste feelings in 6000 years, it only figured that this version would catch wise in less than six hours.

*Not that Aziraphale was ever really going to be Crowley's, but, in his heart, that was how he'd always thought of him, and always would.

"How about…" The hand on his cheek slid down his neck, resting just over his pulse. "How about you have some fun with  _ me _ then,  _ Crowley?" _

"I. Ngk." Crowley swallowed. "I, I don't think I understand what- Aziraphale?"

Notziraphale's other hand was now resting a good ways past his knee, and approaching dangerous territory-

_ Oh. _

Oh yes, there it was.

_ Squeezing. _

_ "A-Azira-!?"  _ Crowley made a sound like a tiny, frightened mouse, and then,  _ it _ happened.

Crowley had often dreamt about what his first kiss would be like, and finally settled on three main characteristics.

One, it was going to be with Aziraphale. Not even a question.

Two, it was going to be gentle, hesitant, tender. The sort of kiss that landed on your lips like a butterfly, and left a faint aftertaste of sugary-sweet nectar behind.

Three, it was going to be full of love, 6000 years of earnest, bone-deep adoration poured into this one kiss, and it was going to be perfect.

The  _ it _ that happened next was none of that.

Notziraphale kissed him as if he wanted to bite his face off, hard and brutal and full of something that was lust at best, and hatred at worst.

It was not perfect at all. It was awful.

And yet, Crowley wanted  _ more _ of it so bad it hurt.

And then Notziraphale was in Crowley's lap, pressing ever closer, tearing and tugging at his clothes, murmuring "go on, Crawly, no more innocent act, it's not nearly as attractive as you think" against his lips, eyes low-lidded and  _ burning _ with spite, and Crowley made a sound like a tiny frightened mouse being trod on.

(A loud crack, and the little clicker-clacker of shards of foreshadow scattering on the compartment floor.)

Notziraphale was… he was… not Aziraphale, but so tantalizingly  _ close, _ and Crowley wanted, he  _ WANTED… _

With more strength than Crowley ever would've thought he could muster - strength of conviction as much as strength of noodly arms - he pushed Notziraphale off him.

His lips were still tingling, and Crowley frantically rubbed his sleeve over them, staring at Notziraphale sprawled on the compartment floor with an emotion he really couldn't name, but definitely had bits of horror and confusion and just a hint of pearl-clutching scandal in it.

"...ngkah." Crowley breathed into his sleeve. "What. Hng. What what, what was…"

"Ow." Notziraphale pushed himself up on his elbows, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at Crowley.  _ "Really, _ Crawly!? Really? Bloody Heaven, you're taking this silly roleplay in very strange directions, and I, for my part, am getting mighty sick of it!"

"You  _ kissed _ me." Crowley whispered, apropos of nothing except his entirely shell-shocked brain attempting to make sense of the proceedings.  _ "Why?" _

"Oh, do we need justifications now?" Notziraphale took the seat opposite him, scowling like… well, like a man-shaped being who had rather been hoping to get shagged, and now found himself frustrated on just about every level it was possible to be frustrated on. "What do you want to hear? I found this gormless act of yours so stimulating I just couldn't help myself, because I'm a silly soft angel randy for innocence, how's that?"

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Why must you always  _ complicate  _ things, Crawly? We fight, we reluctantly cooperate, and whenever we have the opportunity we bugger each other so senseless we briefly forget how desperately we want each other dead. It's not rocket science, is it?"

"What." Crowley reiterated. He felt a little dizzy, actually, but that might just be due to all his blood relocating Effort-wards.

"But noooo! You  _ fake your bloody death, _ and adopt this, this  _ Crowley-persona _ I can't make heads nor tails of, and pretend you  _ love me-" _

Notziraphale's voice cracked. He broke off, took a deep breath.

"You've been angling for a shag all day, don't lie, I'm not  _ blind, _ Crawly. I really don't know what you're playing at with… with "Crowley", but you get stubborn when I don't play along, and push me away when I  _ do. _ And I've had  _ enough." _

He crossed his arms.

"You set out to unsettle me, drive me out of my mind? Well,  _ congratulations, _ you did it. Can we go back to our  _ usual _ Arrangement now?"

"Arrangement." Crowley parroted, just barely stopping himself from adding  _ I don't think that word means what you think it means. _

The Arrangement Crowley knew was friendship and assistance when it came to their assignments, more of less what Notziraphale and Crawly appeared to have, too, albeit more antagonistic.

Not… not…

Not bloody  _ nemeses-with-benefits, _ Satan's sake!

"Yes." Notziraphale didn't look very seductive anymore, nor did he seem particularly angry.

Just… tired. Tired down to the core of his bones, something Crowley never  _ ever _ wanted to see on Aziraphale's face. "Well?"

Crowley swallowed.

If he were human, he had no doubt a shoulder devil and angel would be >poof!<-ing into existence right about now, bearing advice that boiled down "one in a million chance, TAKE IT!" and "extremely inadvisable and morally dubious, DO NOT!" respectively.*

*The shoulder-assignments were highly coveted among the denizens of Hell, mostly because the pay was frankly excellent, and even a human's shoulder was a nicer place to spend your time than down in the Pit. (And, if it got  _ really _ unpleasant, you could always hiss at your human to invest in some dandruff shampoo. Likely, the angel would even offer bipartisan support in that case.)

And, the thing was, Crowley was Tempted. So,  _ so _ Tempted. Screw demons and sirens, Notziraphale with his stylish shirt half-unbuttoned and suit jacket hanging off one shoulder, now  _ that  _ was irresistible.

Only two things were stopping from dropping to his knees right this moment and show Notziraphale what he'd been practising on ice lollies and various other phallic foods* for the past few centuries.

*Aziraphale did something similar, though Crowley was rather certain it was unintentional on his part. The poor angel was surely entirely oblivious to the effect he was having on him, and didn't  _ mean _ to fellate that éclair  _ quite _ so enthusiastically. Or the churros. The ice cream cone. The glazed banana.

My, he really had a  _ way _ of eating, hadn't he?

One, the obvious: this man-shaped angel wasn't Aziraphale. And though he was close enough to pass the muster of Crowley's nether regions, his heart had other ideas, and twinged painfully at the idea of giving up his virginity to Aziraphale's evil twin.

Second, his mind chipped in, Notziraphale had addressed him as…

_ "Crawly." _ Crowley spat. "You  _ still _ think I'm Crawly!?"

"Well, naturally!" Notziraphale seemed taken aback by the sudden jump from shock to outrage. "There's no alternate universes! And I'm not falling for your mind games  _ again,* _ Crawly."

*In the wake of an elaborate Crawly-concocted scheme that very nearly convinced him he was about to get promoted back to Heaven in the early 1800s, Notziraphale had vowed to never again fall for any of Crawly's evil plans.

(Fool an angel once, shame on you, and all that.)

"But you said you  _ believed _ me!" Crowley argued with no small measure of desperation.

"Well. I lied." Notziraphale said, so matter-of-factly it was almost clinical.

"...to me?" He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't.

"Oh, drop it, Crawly."

"But-"

"Must I miracle your mouth shut? Because I  _ will, _ don't test me."

After the "what are you going to do, shoot me?" debacle, Crowley wisely decided to let the matter rest.

The rest of the train ride was spent in icy silence, Notziraphale firmly staring out the window - he hadn't brought a book,  _ and Crowley wasn't going to cry, he WASN'T _ \- and Crowley staring at him, trying to wrap his head around…

An Arrangement that entailed shagging, but no friendship, how had THAT happened? How did you go from nearly killing each other on the regular to apparently-frequent hooking up to let off steam - and all that with not a shred of love between them?

Crowley didn't know whether to be jealous of Crawly, or pity him.

* * *

_ In a glade, two knights were locked in combat - but anyone with third eyes could see that it truly was just another battle in that great eternal skirmish of Good and Evil, Heaven and Hell… and an angel and a demon. _

_ It was darkest night, and even the stars overhead seemed dimmed and fearful. _

_ They had begun this fight three days and three nights ago, and since then, the resplendent metal of Aziraphale's armour and the midnight black of Crawly's had been melted and ripped and banished from their bodies; their clashing swords lay broken and discarded by the trees; and still they were fighting, rolling on the ground and grappling, wrestling, biting. _

_ Aziraphale's limbs were afire, mud and blood coating his physical body, Holy Ichor his celestial form, and exhaustion blurred his vision to stars, yet he could not relent. Crawly fought him tooth and claw, wordless now rather than three days ago, when each blow had accompanied scathing insults; and they might well fight until the stars themselves went out. _

_ Aziraphale twisted, and Crawly beneath him now, pinned by the wrists and panting, blood dripping from his lips that might be his own and might not, and… _

_...oh. _

_ An Effort. How… flattering. In a perverse sort of way. _

_ Experimentally, Aziraphale shifted atop him. _

_ Crawly made a sound, harsh and angry... but desperate, as well. High and pained and wanting, and at the same time furious with himself for doing so. _

_ They were both unable to speak; but Aziraphale raised his brow. _

_ Proud and hateful, even as he lay bleeding and pinned in the mud, Crawly set his jaw and raised his chin in silent challenge, glaring all the while. _

_ The message was clear, "what of it?"... and at the same time, an invitation. _

_ Aziraphale despised him, this low, primitive demon, a willing slave to Sin, and Crawly surely held similar resentments towards him… _

_...and yet. _

_ Carnal pleasures were foreign to him, despite Gabriel's encouragements towards sampling earthly enjoyments. He had never cared, never made an Effort, never wanted to... _

_...and yet. _

_ This was a spectacularly bad idea. _

_ And yet. _

_ And yet, Aziraphale surged downwards and bit Crawly's now exposed neck, holding both wrists in one hand so he could rip the last shreds of clothing from them - no attempt to escape was made by Crawly, only a shuddering, breathless gasp, a hiss like "yesssss"; and yet, he made an Effort now, more sizable than Crawly's on purpose; and yet they writhed, and yet they moaned, and yet, and yet… _

_ The demon beneath him cried out with unnameable emotion, as if he no longer knew whether he felt pleasure or pain, and Aziraphale shook with laughter, frantically pressing against him, around him, into him. _

_ Yes. Yes, this was it. Better than parting unsuccessful and unsatisfied after a fight, worlds better, oh, why had they never done this before? _

_ He would call it heavenly, but there was no Heaven to it, and it was far too good for Hell. It was mundane. Earth-bound. Like pigs and humans, mating in the dirt, in the dark, and OH. _

  
_ It was  _ glorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhhhh yes. Crawly and Notziraphale weren't just enemies.  
> They were _enemies-with-benefits!_  
>  (Plot twist for everybody not on the BB Discord server!)
> 
> As always, hope you enjoyed, leave a comment!  
> <3


	7. One True Religion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looooooong chapter this time!!!  
> Featuring one of my personal favourites, the Chattering Order!  
> <3

After carefully perusing the day's newspapers, MP Shadwell was rather tempted to indulge in a frown.

Terribly peculiar, it was. Very near extraordinary.

And doubtlessly worrying.

Even discounting the morning's possession and near-death experience, he felt like the situation warranted further investigation - that is to say, it sorely demanded it.

With only the slightest sigh-like exhalation, Shadwell went to retrieve his upgraded theodolite from the shelf, lit some of the better incense, and spread a map on his table.

It was going to be a busy day, and perhaps even a busy night.

But Shadwell had a Duty, as he saw it, to the supernatural as well as average populace, which he took very, very seriously.

And if it meant charting leylines all night, then, by the Moon Goddess, chart he would!

* * *

Tadfield Manor rose as indomitable as ever amidst the forest of sharp evergreens - though Crowley noted that the marks of fire and rebuilding efforts were entirely absent, as was the sharp sound of paintball guns being fired.

It reminded him more of that night, twelve years ago, when the place had still been a convent-hospital, before the Antichrist and Hastur and the dissolution of the Chattering Order, and, well, the almost-End of the World.

The gate was closed, and Notziraphale pushed Crowley - rather roughly, too - aside to ring the bell pull.

"Shouldn't I-" Crowley flinched at the icy glare he received. "They're my agents, aren't they?"

"No, demon." Notziraphale hissed under his breath, watching a figure approach from the convent, crossing the courtyard. "They're  _ mine." _

At this point, it may be prudent to explain a few things about the order of nuns that resided in Tadfield Manor.

The Silent Order of St Beryl worshiped the Holy Beryl Inaudible, elevated to sainthood after bravely withstanding torture under the knife of her beloved husband's political enemies, never making as much as a sound.*

*Some versions of the tale implied she died on the rack without ever again articulating a single word in this life. We however, and the Order, subscribe to the version of events where her husband heroically rescued her and they lived many happy years together.

Her husband, allegedly, never took a mistress or even so much as looked at another woman, in love with Beryl all his life - after all, he'd never, so his scribe, met another woman who was  _ such _ a good listener.

To honour her, the nuns had all taken a vow of silence, and never spoke a single word - except for half an hour each Wednesday, when they were allowed to make smalltalk and play badminton if they so wished.

And all of them kept The Faith with quiet conviction, worshipping the Almighty and Heaven in a discreet manner that rather suited Notziraphale when picking agents on earth.

Now, here were humans who were never, under no circumstances, turn to Satanism.

Crowley instantly recognised the nun approaching the gate.

Sister Mary Loquacious, in a habit as white as freshly-fallen snow, a cross - the right way up - around her neck, demurely casting her eyes to the ground and bowing deep before Notziraphale.

"Yes, yes, raise your head my child, blessed be you, etcetera." Notziraphale impatiently waved his hand in a vaguely sanctifying gesture. "I've no time, I'm afraid. Get young Ethel, me and…"

A wince.

"...my  _ associate _ will wait in the chapel."

With that, and a mercilessly tight grip on Crowley's upper arm, Notziraphale made for the Manor, leaving the stunned nun behind.

"What the Hell." Crowley muttered softly, stumbling through the corridors after Notziraphale and boggling at the startlingly pious iconography* on the walls, and the  _ looks _ the Silent Nuns were throwing him in passing.

*The original Convent had displayed mostly rather unfavourable portraits of holy men in compromising situations, and very flattering depictions of the Serpent of Eden that Crowley flushed to look at.

It shouldn't be so surprising, it really shouldn't. But three Tadfield Manors were merging in his mind, the Satanist Convent, the Holy Convent, and the Teambuilding Retreat, and it was giving him a terrible headache.

(Small damnings, at least the wooden floorboards were chestnut - a notoriously wicked tree, if the Esteemed Reader didn't know, almost as bad as plantains - ensuring that Crowley didn't burn his feet raw.)

The chapel was bathed in rainbow light from the stained-glass windows, depicting various scenes, among them a radiant, golden-haired angel triumphing over an ugly, rabid snake-monster, with his wings spread wide and flaming sword blazing.

A song was softly echoing through the air, hummed, so as not to break the vow of silence; nuns curiously peeked at them through their lashes before bending over their folded hands again, and the entire devout atmosphere gave Crowley hives.

Which, judging from the grimly satisfied look in Notziraphale's eyes, might've been the entire point of choosing the chapel as the spot to reconvene.

Crowley glanced again at the window, at the flaming blade splitting the snake's skin like butter, and quickly looked away with a shudder.

Footsteps behind them; Sister Mary, and another woman, a sort of groundskeep by the look of her, with wide, watery eyes and pale hair.

"My Lord Aziraphale!" This other woman exclaimed brightly, dropping into a curtsy. "It's been so long! Twelve years, wasn't it? Or thirteen. Eleven? It's very hard to remember. Because it's been so very long,of course."

Notziraphale raised one brow. "Ethel. I see that the Silence was not your calling, after all?"

"Ah, no, no!" The girl - Ethel - giggled. "Much too communicative, me. Gave up on it a decade ago. But Mary let me stay on, so now I do all the shopping and the talking if the nuns want to phone in their votes for Britain's Got Talent!"*

*The Silent Nuns were fans, and most of the Wednesday smalltalk time was usually allotted to discussing the show. A great dream of theirs was to appear on the show with their humming choir one day, and they already prayed dutifully to God to send the opportunity their way, if She ever had a bit of miracle to spare.

Crowley vaguely recalled seeing Mary Hodges the Businesswoman in London one day last winter, and the shy, timid young woman accompanying her and nodding wordlessly along to her every chattery word.

Hmm. Hm-hm. Yyyyyyyyup.

Sister Mary made an impatient shooing motion towards the other nuns, who were visibly straining to eavesdrop on the conversation - not that Ethel was making that very difficult - and the humming choir dispersed.

_ How may we serve Heaven, oh Messenger of Her? _ She signed towards Notziraphale.*

*Crowley had learned sign language one dull day in the early 00's, thinking it might come in handy for secretly communicating with Aziraphale.

Just like the alternate rendezvous points and the many ways of sending secret messages, Aziraphale had taken to it like a particularly maths-illiterate duck to merchant banking, and usually resorted to rather un-subtle whispering if there was need for a minimum of subterfuge.

"Well." Notziraphale folded his hands behind his back, acquiring an air that nearly made Crowley flinch at how closely it resembled the Archangels in a meeting. "Ethel, my child. You will recall the babe I delivered here twelve years ago?"

"Oh!" Ethel beamed from one ear to another at being addressed. "Yes! You said the Allied Forces of Above and Below entrusted the boy to you, and it was paramount I followed your instructions to the letter. Which I did!"

Notziraphale made a gesture that roughly read  _ carry on. _

Ethel, clearly more used to being shushed at roughly this point in the conversation, continued a little more uncertainly. "When the Ambassadoress came in, I swapped her babe with yours, taking care none of the Secret Servicemen caught wise. She left with the wrong boy - I do believe she named him Warlock - and the other we put up for adoption. He's very happy in his new family!"

"A third baby." Crowley interrupted, before Notziraphale could. "Was there a  _ third _ baby?"

Ethel and Sister Mary exchanged a glance.

"There… was. How did you know?" Ethel frowned slightly. "A local woman, gave birth to a boy also."

Crowley pumped the air in a rather undignified manner, hissing  _ "yesss!" _

"Is it at all possible," Notziraphale continued, throwing a glare at Crowley, "that the babies were swapped once more on accident? That the babe the Ambassadoress took home wasn't the one I brought?"

_ Impossible. _ Sister Mary signed firmly.  _ I supervised Ethel at all times, and we took great care to mark the children with bracelets as soon as we could. Besides, by the time the other child was born, we had already made the switch, and Mrs Dowling kept the boy with herself every minute thereafter. There is absolutely no way. _

Notziraphale's eyes narrowed, all myriads of them, gazing deep into Sister Mary's and Ethel's hearts, for any trace of uncertainty or demonic intervention.

Nothing.

For all intents and purposes, they were speaking the truth.

He turned to Crowley, raising one judgmental eyebrow.  _ Well, what now, demon? Your mad hunch proved incorrect. _

"But, er… ah…" Crowley ran an agitated hand through his hair. "Are you… are you absolutely sure? There must be  _ something, _ you probably messed it up, nothing to be ashamed of, just a little cock-up,  _ are you sure!?" _

His voice had risen to quite the volume towards the end, and in his desperation he even grabbed Ethel's shoulders, shaking her just a little too forcefully.

_ "ARE YOU-" _

_ Positive. _ Mary signed pointedly with one hand, firmly prying his grip off with the other.  _ Lord Aziraphale, may we ask your companion to leave? _

"We're going." Notziraphale nodded his head curtly. "Apologies for  _ wasting your time." _

The last was hissed towards Crowley, and quite accusatorily so.

Crowley attempted a defence, but once more he was grabbed and dragged along.

Behind them, Sister Mary appeared to be comforting Ethel, drawing her close and-

"Did they just  _ kiss?" _ Crowley startled.

"They're  _ nuns, _ Crawly." Notziraphale scoffed. "What did you think they'd be, celibate!?"

Crowley had the distinct feeling that "well... yes" was the wrong answer in this case.

Brave New Opposite-World, he supposed.

(When they emerged from the Manor, a cold wind picked up, uncommonly chill for the time of year; carrying with it the promise of rain and destruction.

Neither of them took any notice of it.)

* * *

_ Very well then, Warlock, said the angel at the door, roughly one year ago. Do you remember what I taught you? _

_ Yes, Mr Cortese. The boy called Warlock responded. He was blond-haired and sweet, the sort of boy that belonged in a renaissance painting, and there was something, something under his skin, thrumming with pure, barely-checked power. _

_ Send the dog away unnamed. Do not destroy earth. Do not harm anyone. And if Father comes, I'm to say no to him. No matter what he offers. _

_ Good boy. The angel nodded. And…? _

_ And do not talk to the Crawly-man. The boy concluded with a slightly bored air, as if this last piece of advice was one he'd had to parrot regularly since earliest childhood. I know. _

_ So you do. The angel absentmindedly ruffled his hair. Goodbye, Warlock. _

_ Why must you go? The boy asked. _

_ My task here is done. The angel said solemnly. It's up to you now. I trust you will chose wisely. _

_ Don't worry, Mr Cortese! The boy beamed, sparks dancing from his eyes. I will! _

_ And he did. _

* * *

Anathema Device took a bite of snack-o-host* and turned the page.

*"Taste Him With Every Mouthful!"

She was reading her Bible, mainly because Mrs Potts had told her to do so.

Mrs Potts often told her to read the Bible, and read it carefully, though she never specified why, or how. Was she supposed to contemplate the sacrifice of Christ? Learn from the depictions of Unbelievers? Circle every usage of the word "Lo!"?

No. Just reading, none of that thinking-about-what-you'd-read business.

(Sometimes, Anathema suspected "not thinking" was half the point of making her read, together with "not talking"; but that was a very uncharitable thought towards Mrs Potts - not to mention Unchristian! - so she kept it to herself.)

It didn't help that Mrs Potts had blacked out anything she deemed unsuitable for a young girl to read, which included most of the Old Testament, and the best bits of the New one.*

*One page was even ripped out entirely, previously containing a section that started "Buggre All Thif for a Larke!" And just got worse from there.

It was, quite honestly very dull, and the only reason Anathema put up with it was that the alternative was standing outside in what appeared to be a brewing storm, trying to spread the Good Word to people who  _ really _ didn't want to be spread unto.

She had another host, and read the last passage again. It was her favourite, if just because none of the other members of the Bible study group knew what she was talking about if she mentioned it. It was her little secret, to be kept between her and God (and the typesetter, she supposed.)

And Satan came unto Earth

And spake to the angel:

Oi, Principality! Where is the demon I sent up here?

And the angel spake:

I sent him running with my flaming sword

And I shall do the same unto you

If you don't get out of my sight right this instant!

And Lo, the Devil went out of his sight, and did not speak to him again.

Anathema thought about that, never mind Mrs Potts more or less forbidding thought.

"Mrs Potts?" She asked.

"What, girl?" Mrs Potts was knitting a little overall, only the most recent of many, which she had a habit of putting on half-naked Jesus figurines nailed to the cross.

"I was wondering," Anathema began hesitantly, "God's Angels are messengers of His Will. Aren't they?"

"Yes." Mrs Potts confirmed, bristling slightly at Anathema "wondering" in the first place.

"So they are instruments of His Almighty Power."

"Yes."

"Could an angel defeat Satan and all His Evils, if it was God's Will?"

"Naturally!" Mrs Potts exclaimed forcefully, crossing herself quickly at the mere idea of the Evil One possibly triumphing.

"Then why don't they?" Anathema asked simply.

Mrs Potts opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Pursed her lips.

"That's a wicked thought!" She admonished sharply, in the tradition of religious figures of authority all through history. "His Plan shall not be questioned! Pray three Hail Mary's, chop chop."

Anathem did; because, while she knew how to argue, she also knew better than to ever actually do it.

"But how," she said right after wrapping up the last Hail Mary, "can they tell, then? If we cannot question the Plan. How do they-"

Mrs Potts gave her the sort of glare that made it obvious she was not appreciating her young ward questioning  _ Questioning.* _

*Questioning was one of the worst things you could do as a Christian, in Mrs Potts' opinion, right after blaspheming and performing certain rites upon oneself that made hair grow on one's palms.

In for a penny, Anathema figured. "And  _ why _ do we humans have to follow the Plan, anyway? Are we not given Free Will by God, so we might-"

"I think." Mrs Potts said very loudly. "You would benefit from being assigned a Task."

_ Crumbs. _ Anathema thought - not in a way that substituted an expletive, though. Just in a way that contemplated the crumbs she'd left on her skirts, and how they'd fall to the ground when she was sent to stand out in the cold and hand out pamphlets.

... _ very crumbs. _

"God commands you to…" Mrs Potts began.

Mrs Potts always knew what God commanded them to do. She claimed to receiver her orders directly from Heaven, though it was honestly fifty-fifty which side they actually came from, and even more likely that she was merely taking advice from various televangelist shows and bending those ideas into whatever suited her best.*

*Anathema seriously doubted that God wanted her to do  _ quite _ that much Silent Contemplation, but Mrs Potts' word was as good as law in the household, and Doubting considered only marginally less bad than outright Questioning.

"I think, my girl," Mrs Potts smiled patronisingly and only a bit fanatically, clearly having figured out which option would give her the most amount of peace and quiet. "You might be ready for going on a Holy Crusa-"

She stopped. Corrected herself.

"...a missionary assignment."

_ Crumbing Hell. _

  
  


Ten minutes later, Anathema found herself out on the street, a backpack filled with provisions and her Bible over one shoulder, wearing the big, exorcism-suitable cross around her neck, and swaddled in numerous jackets.

In one hand she was holding a map that Mrs Potts had carefully marked at apparent-random by throwing a knitting needle at it to determine Anathema's divinely-chosen destination.

"Tad...field…?" Anathema read out loud.

She frowned.

Shrugged.

And started walking.

(If she was at all lucky, this might even count as a pilgrimage in the long run.)

* * *

Notziraphale and Crowley sat together at the train station, huddled into their respective coats against the unusually-chill night air,* and pointedly Did Not Speak to each other.

*The objective observer might take note of the strangely symbolic storm brewing on the horizon, and the possible implications of such frosty temperatures at a time of year that made meteorologists all over the globe do a double-take and solemnly vow to replace all their equipment, but neither Notziraphale nor Crowley were at all objective and/or observant, so this occurred entirely unacknowledged and uncommented.

The silence was only broken by freight trains passing through - which happened quite frequently, actually.

You see, roughly half a decade ago, plans had been in the works for a new cross-country railway line, which would lead straight through Tadfield and be mostly used to transport goods in very heavy, very loud trains at all hours of the night. This would further entail a rather ugly new station at the outskirts of town, more or less a stretch of concrete in the middle of a field with a few metal seats bolted to one side and a flimsy roof overhead.

Now, in the world Crowley still thought of as the real one, this had never come to pass. A young boy had heard his father voice Opinions about where the railway company could stick their new line, and found he rather preferred Tadfield stay as idyllic and untouched by the majority of civilisation as it always had been, with its perfect summers and crisp autumns and snow every Christmas.

And reality, naturally, had bowed and scraped and Made It So.

Here, however, Tadfield summers were rainy and miserable, and so were Tadfield Christmases - and don't get us  _ started _ on Tadfield autumns - and the construction work had gone through as planned.

Of the hundreds of trains passing very noisily through Tadfield every day, only a handful stopped to actually pick up passengers, which was usually done with an overbearing air of mutual resentment.

The Tadfielders because they-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-I mean to say-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-at all hours-CHOO-CHOOOO!

(Well. You get the point.)

And the railway company, because very few people actually got on or off at Tadfield station. Stopping there was a waste of time first and foremost, and Notziraphale and Crowley were in fact the first to do so since the beginning of the summer hols, and Cleanly Johnson* returning from boarding school.

*Why, yes, he  _ had _ been adopted! How did you know, dear Reader?

His tropical fish collection was rather poor though, and did  _ not _ win any prizes. Cleanly Johnson wasn't discouraged by that, however. Life was about more than that, in his opinion, and he simply carried on doing what he loved.

Quite inspiring, really.

Crowley had counted five freight trains, two overnight trains, and one passenger train passing through in the two hours they had been sitting there in the icy night air and icier silence, and none of them had made any sign of stopping for them.

Not even when Crowley had glared and  _ pointedly suggested _ it.*

*The obstinate nature of railway travel has already been established as a constant between realities, and evidently also unaffected by Helish miracles.

And it wouldn't even be so bad if Notziraphale only  _ talked _ to him. Crowley already spent most of his existence in England's rather cold-blooded-beings-unfriendly climates just because it ensured him Aziraphale's company, it was funny what the angel could make bearable by his sheer presence in Crowley's life.

Notziraphale was very much not providing that, and showed little inclination to ever start.

A train finally  _ screeeeeee _ -ched to a halt in front of them, opening its doors with a pointed air of  _ look what you're making me do, I could be reducing my one-hour delay by half a minute right now! _

Crowley, who had never seen a challenge by an inanimate object he wasn't instantly ready to meet, pushed to his feet extra slowly and offered his hand to Notziraphale.

Who, unsurprisingly, ignored it, and got to his feet without acknowledging him.

...right.

Crowley slunk after him, miserably.

It wasn't fair, being punished for… well, presumably Crawly had done  _ something _ to deserve the glacial shoulder, and Crowley was now in the unfortunate position of having to face the music.

Really not fair.

Apparently disinclined to nudge the train into growing smaller compartments this time, Notziraphale slid into one of the row seats, throwing Crowley the sort of look that indicated he would be best served finding a seat somewhere else.

Crowley received that look, examined it from all angles, decoded it, and finally, politely, told it "no thank you" and plopped himself down on the aisle seat right next to him.

Notziraphale bristled visibly, and Crowley braced himself for an argument…

...which never came.

With a sound very near a sigh, Notziraphale turned away from him and rested his head against the dark of the windowpane, watching the distant lights of Tadfield smear into darkness and blur with distance.

It occurred to Crowley that, even discounting the frown lines around his eyes, he looked much, much more tired than Aziraphale's face had any right to look.*

*Even in the most dire of circumstances, Aziraphale maintained at least a weak attempt at chipperness - which of course begged the question, how chipper chooses a chocolate chip cookie to chatter, if chipperly chattering chocolate chips cookies might choke?

...or not. Perhaps that question wasn't at all relevant outside of Tongue-Twisters Anonymous. Who knows.

Old and world-weary, and terribly, terribly exhausted. It wasn't a good look on him, inasmuch as anything even remotely Aziraphale-related could be not-good.

"Angel?" Crowley said as nonchalantly as he could, which was actually very chalantly indeed. "Don't know about you, but I'm really rather in the mood for…"

One summer precisely 247 years ago, a saint had passed through Rhône valley on her pilgrimage, and on her way, as thanks for food and board, blessed a kindly vigneron's grapes.

That harvest was to be the richest in many a year, and the grapes of the vine the saint had laid hands upon in her blessing were so sweet, so utterly perfect, the Heavenly Choirs and the Legions of Hell set aside their differences and both sang in the hearts of all who ate them.

The resulting wine was nothing short of divine,* and it is said the vigneron wept like a babe upon first tasting it.

*Heh. Di-wine.

Only six bottles were produced of this heavenly wine, one for each day that God laboured to create the earth; and a seventh for Her resting day, which was made only from the richest, juiciest fruits and sweeter yet than all that came before it.

Of these seven bottles, one was given to the vigneron's oldest son, who shared it with his lover one moonlit night. Three were sent to Louis XVI, who served them after the signing of the Treaty of Paris, to much rejoicing. With one, the vigneron's great-great-grandchild drank to the memory of his mère, unknowing how dearly he honoured her with it; and another fell from the shelf in 1881 and simply broke, wine draining into the ground.

The last and seventh bottle however, filled with the sweetest and grandest of wines, survived to this day.

Its memory lost to the years, The Seventh Bottle lay still and peaceful in the darkened corner of a half-forgotten wine cellar, fondly remembering that golden summer so many years ago, and regaling the younger labels with tales of bygone times, a thick coat of dust enveloping it warmly.

A Methuselah of wines, it held little hope of ever being drunken, and had long made its peace with this.

(Though, once a year, on the anniversary of the saint's visit, The Seventh Bottle wondered what manner of entity might be destined to drink it and see the Heavens break open before them, who might taste its perfect bouquet and fall to their knees, praising God.

A wine could dream, after all.)

And it was this Seventh Bottle that, utterly at random, found itself transported from its dusty cellar in a flash of miraculousness, to be cradled behind a demon's back for a dramatic reveal.

"...for absolutely  _ extraordinary _ amounts of alc-" Crowley continued, making to pull The Seventh Bottle out into the open.

_ This is it, thought The Seventh Bottle. Saints preserve me, this is it. _

"I don't drink." Notziraphale shot* him down instantly.

*At least it was only metaphorical now, that was  _ something. _

"...of course you don't." Crowley sighed, and The Seventh Bottle found itself instantly returned to its cellar, left to re-gather dust and tell the young 'uns  _ you won't BELIEVE the day I've had! _

And so the train continued on, rattling along the tracks, empty or at least as near as, the faint glow of the overhead lamps only occasionally brightened by flashes of lightning outside.

Thunder growled, and rain began softly pitter-pattering, and Crowley's heart was beating painfully against his sternum as he watched the shadows Notziraphale's eyelashes cast on his cheek.

"Can I ask you something?" Crowley said quietly.

"Oh, Crawly, can we  _ not?" _ Notziraphale muttered tiredly, not opening his eyes or raising his head from the glass. "You've been trying enough today, just... let me be."

Silence.

The ticket inspector reached their carriage, but wisely stepped right back out, due to some deep-seated instinct of service personnel in regards to survival strategies.*

*This effect could be frequently observed in janitors employed in high-security facilities, who regularly opted for "nnnnnnope" upon noticing intruders, put their walkman to a higher volume, and carried out their cleaning while some heist team Ocean-Eleven'd their employer.

"Aziraphale, I'm sorry." Crowley finally said, wretchedly.

Notziraphale cracked open one eye, pure surprise under the exhaustion.

Crowley couldn't help a weak little laugh. "I wager Crawly's never said that before, has he?"

"No." Notziraphale confirmed warily. "You haven't."

"Well,  _ I'm _ saying it now." Crowley steeled himself. "And for the last time, I'm not Crawly."

"Pull the other one, demon, it's got bells on."

Crowley resisted the impulse to elbow him. "I wish I could apologise for what he's done to you more concretely, but… I don't know, genuinely don't know, what he's done to deserve your hatred - and don't get me wrong, I have no doubt he  _ does.* _ I'd only… I'd like to  _ know why. _ Why the fighting and why the, er, the thing you do after fighting, and the joint assignments and the  _ bloody _ bloody art in the flat. I don't understand any of it and if… Someone Help, if this is to be a  _ permanent _ state of affairs, I need to know these things."**

*Opposite-world or not, you didn't look at someone the way Notziraphale looked at Crowley without having good reason for it.

**Mostly so he could grovel and make it all up to Notziraphale, because life without the closest Crowley could get to  _ his _ angel sounded perfectly unbearable.

Notziraphale raised his head, squinting at him  _ completely unlike _ a shortsighted owl trying to decipher a rather finely-printed book, and that broke Crowley's heart a little.

"This is phase two, isn't it?" He muttered resignedly. "You want… information, of some sort or other. An admission, some insight into-"

"No!" Crowley groaned. "Hell's Bells* Aziraphale, no! I really,  _ really _ only want to know. Nothing big, nothing secret, nothing about you or Heaven or anything whatsoever else. It'll cost you nothing, and it'll be only things I would know anyway, were I really Crawly - which, to reiterate,  _ I am not. _ How's that?"

*Hell did indeed have a belltower, though the clock on it was always a random amount between three and forty-seven minutes late, and the bells never rang unless someone was just about to fall asleep.

The squint pulled into more of a frown.

Crowley kept his face as open and honest as possible, given that it was demonic hardware and he was wearing sunglasses.

"...oh,  _ fine." _ Notziraphale said tightly. "You are the demon Crawly, Serpent of-"

"Ernngk." Crowley grimaced. "Use third person, please?"

"Oh for-"

"Indulge me."

Notziraphale rolled his eyes, but relented.

"...he's the demon Crawly, Serpent of Eden, and perhaps the worst, most wicked creature I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. Frankly, I would be far happier if I hadn't."

Suffice to say, Crowley already didn't like where this was going.

* * *

"Now, why do I still work with  _ him?" _ Notziraphale pointedly stressed the pronoun, glaring at Crawly all the while. What was this utter nonsense now? Some bizarre form of foreplay? Honestly, if Crawly wanted dirty talk, he should've just  _ said. _

"Well. That's because Upstairs and Downstairs joined in their silly little alliance so our respective superiors could shag each other without repercussions a few centuries ago; and suddenly there were all these ideas about  _ cooperation _ floating about. Which Crawly and I were not fans of.

And yet, after they sent us to "colleagues counselling" the fifth time, we decided on a few… ground rules,* to preserve a certain impression, and prevent  _ that _ from EVER happening again.

*These rules included, but we're not limited to, no destructive acts during joint assignments, only well-premediated usage of extreme force, announcement of skirmishes, and breaching of the sanctity of the other's lair was at your own risk.

So we keep up the pretence of being good friends should our sides ever care to check up, while really despising each other and having the occasional frankly phenomenal hate shag.* Works out a treat.

*This was, of course, the direct opposite to Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship, which consisted of pretending to hate each other for the Higher-Up's and Lower-Downs, while really bring rather fond of each other, and resolutely  _ not _ shagging - a sorry state to be in, all in all.

As for why the sex… well, why not?

(Notziraphale might've added something like "he's a  _ demon, _ and as much as I hate to admit it, nothing on Heaven and Earth is half as good a lay", but this was  _ Crawly himself _ he was talking to, and he'd be damned if he stroked that vile creature's ego so!)

That way, I at least get an orgasm or two out of having to put up with pointless missions and detestable company.*

*Technically, the shagging had started long before the Alliance and the joint missions, see aforementioned unspoken other reason. But Crawly was surely aware of his prowess, and had drawn conclusions from Notziraphale's enjoyment of post-skirmish proceedings.

The fighting… well. Crawly is very committed to Wiles and Evil Deeds. The sort of old-fashioned demonic entity Hell has been doing away with since GabrielandBeelzebub's* alliance, you understand. So I, as the angel tasked with protecting humanity, must thwart him, at any cost. It's my job, simple as that.

*A couple who had reached  _ That Couple  _ status had usually long since lost the capacity to have individual names, as is the case here. Individual circulatory systems would go next, Mark our words.

That I also despise as well as shag him merely means that business just so happens to coincide with pleasure on multiple levels. Does that answer your questions?"

Notziraphale threw Crawly a challenging look. _ Have I sufficiently played into your kinks? _

He rather thought he had. Crawly had acquired a strangely glazed-over expression when the word "shag" had first been mentioned, and it hadn't improved much since.

"I…" a little shake of his head "...that doesn't explain why you hate him in the first place.  _ That's  _ what I need to know."

_ Seriously? _ Notziraphale wouldn't have thought Crawly got off on being insulted… but, then again, he  _ was _ a demon. Perhaps confessions of hatred were like compliments to them, Notziraphale had never really cared to find out much about demonic natures, and Crawly hadn't exactly volunteered information.

In any case, if Crawly wanted to have all of Notziraphale's pent-up-over-centuries fury spread out before him, well, who was he to argue?

"Oh, by all means, let me count the ways!" Notziraphale bared his teeth in a smile he knew very well was quite terrible, and delighted in the odd twitch in Crawly's expression.

Behind him, the storm was growing ever more violent.

"I hardly know where to start. He's dirty, and crude, and needlessly vulgar; impolite, uncaring, and brutal. He's a spiteful creature who delights in the pain of others, enjoys driving them out of their minds, would watch a child burn and simply laugh, all the while adding oil to the flames - in fact, I don't think I've ever seen him smiling if someone else wasn't crying at the same time.

Except - you asked about the paintings? He  _ likes _ them. Likes watching human agony, I suppose, and he smiles when he looks at them. He wants to watch the world bleed and burn, and if I'm in his way - well, then he does it to  _ me, _ and revels in it.

The Spanish Inquisition was his  _ masterpiece. _ Oh, he was so proud!"

Notziraphale laughed bitterly, in unison with a clap of thunder.

"And so  _ excited. _ He once had me -  _ had me - _ in the dungeons of the Bastille during the Failed Revolution of 1789. I'm still not sure whether it was the thrill of violent deaths in general, or seeing me specifically led to the guillotine... I think he'd have liked it even more if they'd succeeded in killing me. To reiterate, he really rather  _ enjoys _ bloodshed.

Now, have you, as people say nowadays,  _ gotten your rocks off _ to hearing me go on about your nonvirtue, or-"

Notziraphale broke off.

Crawly was making a very strange face, ever so strange.

Stricken to the bone, peppered with shards of a broken heart, and so, so full of remorse. Not at all the triumphantly-smug lascivious grin he'd been expecting.

"I. I don't…" Crawly whispered, breath catching in his throat as if he was about to… to… no, no, what a preposterous notion. Crawly and _ crying. _ Perfectly unthinkable. "Aziraphale, I. I would  _ never. _ I can't believe he- that's just- never! That's  _ horrifying, _ and…"

A pleading look, visible even despite the sunglasses in how desperately Crawly's entire body seemed to strain towards him in wordless yearning.

"I'm  _ not him, _ Aziraphale, and Satan help me, I wouldn't ever want to be. Won't do anything of the sort, would never,  _ never, _ and frankly, i-it makes me  _ sick _ to think a version of me has!"

Notziraphale studied him. Those earnest eyes, the wetness in them, the unmasked desperation, the remorse and untainted, genuine hope.

He was starting to think his went beyond good acting.

"I've a return question, then." Notziraphale threw into the air between them before he could examine that thought any further. "Information for information."

"Seems only fair." Crawly conceded, only a little wetly, dabbing at the area under his sunglasses with the hem of his sleeves.

"I've told you about Crawly, and, in return,  _ you _ will tell me about Aziraphale. Or, at least, who you think of as Aziraphale. The version you've constructed for this elaborate ruse. I'm… curious."

Again, the words  _ "you said you loved him" _ hung heavy in the air.

But this time, rather than fluster, a light came on in Crawly's face.*

*Crowley didn't know this, but his face did a Thing of its own upon laying eyes on Aziraphale - or even simply thinking of him. A soft, loving, radiantly adoring Thing, and no matter how much he tried to dim it, it was always and forever there.

"Aziraphale is… he's  _ perfect." _ Crawly breathed, shining with love; and something deep inside Notziraphale twisted and conjured up a strong feeling of nausea.

(At least Crawly hadn't started in second person. Notziraphale was certain that would've soundly turned his stomach upside-down entirely.)

"But… also not perfect. Perfection is boring in the long run, you know. There's only one way a person can be perfect, but countless ways they can be flawed. And, Aziraphale, he's fussy, and ridiculous, and he hoards books he has no intention of ever selling. He wears the most awful tartan bowties and tweed jackets, hasn't updated his phone since two centuries ago, and once he nearly got decapitated for crêpes!"

Crawly grinned, fondly reminiscing. Notziraphale took a deep breath, and hoped the nausea would abate soon.

"But he's still wonderful, despite it all. He's the only angel I've ever met who deserves to call himself one. He, he's kind, and gentle, and loving, and he can spare forgiveness for even the lowliest creatures, like-"

The grin turned softer, sadder.

"He even has it in himself to be friends with a demon." Crawly said, and Notziraphale had to look away. Seeing the expression on his face felt more intimate than anything he and Crawly had ever done in the bedroom. And other rooms. Outside. Anywhere, really.*

*And they'd done a  _ lot. _ If you were shagging a demon, then you damn well tried out anything available to you, seeing as you were probably damnings yourself already, in case you wanted Notziraphale's opinion on the matter.

"He sounds like a wet fish." Notziraphale said, perhaps a little more sharply than was called for. "Friends with a demon, always forgiving... I bet he lets everybody walk right over him. Doesn't he?"

"No!" Crawly immediately burst out. "He's not- I mean, yes, he might seem… soft, at first glance. But he's a right bastard beneath it all!"

Notziraphale raised a dubious eyebrow. He didn't know why he was arguing with Crawly about the way he was depicting an alternate version of him in this insane game of his, but he also didn't see any point in backing down  _ now. _

"No,  _ really. _ You should see him with customers! He's not sold a book since the early 70s!"

Notziraphale shot Crawly the single most horrified look.

"You mean to say he's…" said like the worst swear  _ "...being less than forthcoming to customers?" _

"He chased someone out with a broom, once." Crawly sighed, the way people would say  _ "and then he proposed to me, with the kitten he rescued and the child he's so incredibly wonderful with in one arm, and the Nobel peace prize in the other." _

Notziraphale made an appalled sound, and if he weren't already sitting, he would endeavour to do so at this point. If he needed any further confirmation of Crawly's imaginary alternate world being the product of a sick and twisted mind, this was it.

"So, terrible to  _ paying customers, _ and wimpish towards anyone else? My, what a catch, Crawly."

"He just doesn't want to sell his darlings." Crawly stubbornly crossed his arms. "And it's not like he wouldn't put his foot down if he had good reason."

Notziraphale saw an opening, a soft spot, a prime opportunity for mockery, and centuries of animosity had conditioned him into diving for it teeth first.

"Good reason?" He said, sweetly. "Oh, I see, I see. I imagine  _ you _ are that good enough reason, then? He made a stand when it came to you two, why, what a lovely narrative. That's almost  _ sweet, _ demon. Though I would've appreciated if you'd named your imaginary angelfriend anything  _ other _ than Azi-"

"He." Crawly suddenly seemed profoundly uncomfortable. "He didn't… I mean, he might've, sort of did, in the end, but… not exactly..."

Well. Not the intended effect, but discomfort was washing off the demon in waves, he'd take it.

"I take it he doesn't…  _ reciprocate." _ Notziraphale purred, and delighted at Crawly's flinch, even as he was puzzled how this could possibly have any effect that looked so damnably  _ genuine. _

(Meanwhile, Crowley's head was swirling with "I don't even like you", "there's no  _ our _ side", and "if I just talk to a Higher Authority…" and any other time Aziraphale had proven that his instinct to bend over backwards for Heaven took priority over the Arrangement, over  _ Crowley. _

And it  _ hurt.) _

"He does." Crawly said, very quietly, and with a strange undertone as if he was trying to convince  _ himself _ more than Notziraphale. "He cares for me, too. I, I know it. We've both risked our existences for the freedom to be- to  _ be. _ And besides - Satan, why am I telling you this, you don't even believe me - it wouldn't even matter if I'm not his first priority. Because he's  _ mine, _ always was, always will be."

He turned to Notziraphale. Removed his sunglasses.

His eyes were very golden. Notziraphale had been aware of this, of course, but seeing it was another matter entirely.

"I really do love him." He said, as if uttering a great, eternal truth - and, perhaps, he was. "And I  _ miss _ him, with all my heart."

(Another flash of lightning briefly froze this admission in stark, washed-out colours, and the ringing silence after it persisted until long after the rolling thunder had faded from the air.)

"...good Lord." Notziraphale muttered softly, wrestling with his own disbelief. "I'm starting to think you truly mean that."

"Yes." Crawly put his glasses back on. "Have you finally realised I'm telling the truth?"

"...I've realised," Notziraphale began cautiously, "that you  _ believe  _ you're telling the truth. It's simply more prudent to put my money on some sort of nervous breakdown or self-hypnosis at this point. Or perhaps you've hit your head?"

He reached out to check for telltale bumps, but Crawly flinched from his hand.*

*That was… new. Crawly had never, not once, feared his touch.

He'd responded with bites, sometimes, or spat insults into his face in retaliation; but never a flinch and a retreat.

Notziraphale didn't think he liked it.

"I…" Crawly let out a resigned sigh, visibly deflating. "Oh, forget it."

Silence descended upon them.

Notziraphale turned back to the window, and the storm outside.

So that was it. A spell of madness. Crawly would recover his sanity and usual demeanour soon enough, only a question of time. This strange persona was only a momentary lapse, then.

A lapse he could, theoretically, purely theoretically,  _ exploit. _

And why not? Crawly would do the same if their positions were reversed. If Notziraphale believed himself to be that soft, vapid creature "Crowley" described. He'd rip him apart without a second thought, and desecrate the shreds.

Notziraphale watched Crawly's reflection in the window, an impossibly soft smile still not quite faded from the demon's lips. Thought of that mouth forming the words  _ "I love you", _ meaning them, truly meaning them... at least for the time being.

Forking lightning broke the reflection into shards, and Notziraphale forced his eyes closed.

He couldn't.

Notziraphale wasn't kind, not the way Crawly had conjured up in his delusions. Being an angel, dealing with Heaven and humanity and a God that never seemed to care, you had to harden yourself. There was no space for softness, no time for gentleness, and certainly no call for  _ love,  _ in the life Notziraphale had built for himself.

...and yet.

And yet, if he didn't give Being Good a sporting try now and then, what even was the point of being an angel?

It just didn't seem  _ right, _ attacking Crawly when he was like this. Incapable of fighting back, and unwilling to, besides; and so terribly,  _ terribly _ vulnerable.

Notziraphale had always thought such expressions didn't suit Crawly... and never more so than now.

* * *

_ The sun rose almost furtively over Wessex that morning, lingering too long in almost-dawn, sky brightening but ground still shrouded in darkness. _

_ Aziraphale thought he had slept - or perhaps passed out, not that he knew how to tell - but not for very long. _

_ One of his hands was still loosely holding one of Crawly's wrists, the other tangled in mud-crusted curls, and it was strangely difficult to raise his head from Crawly's shoulder. _

_ (Arms slid down from around his neck, and Aziraphale made a point of shaking them off more pointedly.) _

_ The sun was sliding over the horizon, warm on his bare skin, and gentler than either of them had been last night, _

_ "Well." Aziraphale croaked. Cleared his throat. Continued. "As debased as this was, I must admit it wasn't  _ entirely _ dreadful, as far as hateful rutting in the mud goes. I propose we do this after every skirmish from now on, how about it?" _

_ Crawly didn't answer. _

_ There was something very peculiar happening to his face, turned towards the dawn and strangely naked without the smoked glasses he preferred. _

_ He appeared to be watching the sunrise, eyes wide and expression cracked-open, bare; and it took Aziraphale a moment to realise there was no scowl, no sneer, not even the slightest hint of the usual ugliness. _

_ It was unsettling, to say the least. Like looking at a face without the skin on, seeing right through the layers and… _

_...and what? _

_ Aziraphale pushed himself further up so he was straddling Crawly, and released his wrist. _

_ "Crawly?" He said, and braced himself for another attack, a continuation of their fight. _

_ None came. Crawly's eyes, demonic and acid-coloured, seemed almost wet in the glow of the new dawn in the East. _

_ "What, Aziraphale?" He muttered, toneless. _

_ "Are you…" alright, the angel in him meant to say, but that was preposterous. To ask Crawly that. To care to hear the answer. "...amenable to repeating this experience on occasion?" _

_ "Hng? Sure. Sure." At last, Crawly's eyes slid over to him, and, ah,  _ there _ was the sneer. "Whyever not?" _

_ "...right." Aziraphale nodded curtly, sliding off him in favour of hunting for his clothes. _

_ "I'll like as not get a commendation for it, you know." Crawly grinned, dark and feral. "They're all in favour of me violating angels, down there." _

_ "Violating!" Aziraphale whirled around. "That is NOT what-" _

_ "Oh, of course, let's do it your way." Crawly stretched like a snake, sinful in his nudity despite the mud and the various bodily fluids covering him, and adapted a high and whining tone. "'Why, yes, my Lord Hastur, the angel ravished me as I was helpless in his power, oh, what a brute!'" _

_ "Quiet, demon." _

_ "Would they make you Fall for that, I wonder?" A wicked laugh. "Now, THAT would be delightful! The press release, I can see it now, 'Angel fucks demon, and off to Hell…'" _

_ "Another word and I'll smite you, you disgusting creature!" Aziraphale spat. "Forget it!" _

_ Crawly's laughter had long faded by the time he left the glade. _

_ But, as silly and inexplicable as it was, the memory of his face in the dawn light would stay with Aziraphale for centuries to come, and after every, er, repeat performance, he would search Crawly's expression for any trace of it. _

  
_ It was  _ always _ pointless. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ethel is an OC from my first GO fic, Good Endings - because Sister Mary deserves a girlfriend, Satanblessit! - do check that out if you'd like, it has matchmaking and mutual pining.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, tell me what you thought!  
> ^-^ <3


	8. There's Death On Every Page

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a brief cameo from another fandom that I dedicate to - and blame for - Ximeria (GOBB mod Pestilence) who mentioned the fandom in question in the discord server, and Made Me Ship It.
> 
> It also has a footnote I blame on littleblackfox and their amazing Bake-off fic - read it! You won't regret it, trust me!
> 
> (Also, since this seems to be a trend in recent comments - Crowley does get a little hug by the end of this!)
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter!  
> <3

Crowley followed Notziraphale from the underground, with not a word spoken between them all the way to the bookshop's door, both of them emotionally and physically exhausted,* and, due to the ongoing storm, more or less soaked.

*Notziraphale, as opposed to Aziraphale,  _ did _ appear to have fallen into the habit of sleeping, and had a goosefeather bed with plump, luscious pillows upstairs in the flat.

It had been a long day.

They stopped at the door.

"Well. This was a waste of time." Notziraphale murmured, fishing in his pockets for the keys. "I suppose more research is in order."

"Hmm." Crowley agreed vaguely as the door was unlocked, loitering so pointedly old ladies in a two-mile radius had the sudden urge to call the police.

Aziraphale would've invited him in long ago, suggested a glass of wine, a snack, "don't go yet, dear boy, the night is young and you must know how much I enjoy your company"...

Notziraphale, however, only threw a dubious look over his shoulder.

"Not in the mood, demon." He said bluntly. "You had your chance earlier."

And with not even a goodnight wish, he slipped into the shop and locked the door behind him, ignoring Crowley's hasty plea of "wait, can I just crash on your couch- oh, blessit."

It wasn't exactly a quiet night, rain drumming on the cobbles, thunder rolling in the distance, and the bustle of London all around.

And yet, Crowley shivered, the silence suddenly unbearable.

"Right." He said forlornly, suddenly feeling more alone than ever. "Guess not, then?"

The facade of the bookshop remained closed off - literally - and unsympathetic.

"...yeah." Crowley sighed, and wandered off into the cold, wet night.

* * *

There was absolutely no way Crowley was going to go back to his- to Crawly's flat.

It had been bad enough to wake up in that mess of a place with the creepy art and the patches of mould only a few more evolutionary steps away from achieving sentience, he couldn't bear the thought of going to sleep there.

Hotel rooms were definitely out, too,* and Notziraphale had made his stance on offering him a place to sleep abundantly clear.

*There was just  _ something _ about hotels. They were in-between places, fleeting and unreal, all oddly-patterned carpets and bland modern art on the walls, with just that one flickering light at the end of the corridor. In hotels, people were but shadows of themselves, tended to by ever-smiling staff that likely as not simply stopped moving the moment you weren't looking at them.

It was a waiting room, purgatory with fluffy pillows and on-demand porn, quite possibly the loneliest places on earth if you took a room with only a single bed; and Crowley couldn't bear that atmosphere.

Not here and now, at least, not in this world where the people and things he loved were gone, not after floating nearly-dead in the Nothing for half an eternity, or after the harrowing conversations with Notziraphale.

He didn't want to be alone.

Not tonight.

Luckily, there was one other option open to him:

The library.

  
  
  


Confused, Dear Reader?

We absolutely understand. Most people know libraries as dreary, quiet places, which close at 5:30 pm on the dot and will set bloodhounds on you if that yellowed copy of Paradise Lost is even one day late. Boring places, smelling like dust, academia, and palpable regret.

This, however, is a common misconception; intentionally and deliberately perpetuated on all levels, by numerous leading figures in the library business and the meanest, lowliest book-hauling shelfer alike.

The public is ushered out in the evenings, oh yes, and shushed into submission if they so much as breathe on the way out.

The doors are locked, and…

And  _ that, _ Dear Esteemed Reader, is when the party starts.

Various cities talk big game in regards to never sleeping; libraries laugh at them all, not having so much as  _ napped _ since their founding.

Those In The Know will gather after closing time in the empty book-lined hallways, proceed to have the kind of smashing time other secret societies may only dream of,* and open the next morning with the public none the wiser.

*A freemason had once snuck his way into one such establishment at night, and promptly handed in his notice. He was last seen manning the info desk of a library in Shropshire, which was Known for its outstanding moonshine.

Of course, those do's were still in some ways the sort of affair librarians and the people affiliated with them enjoyed; and yet, we advise the Esteemed Reader never to enter into a drinking contest with anyone working at a library. Chances are alcohol poisoning will set in before their opponent is even slightly tipsy.

Furthermore, if ever you are invited,  _ do _ go. There's no party quite like a library party, and none more exclusive.

So Crowley stood at the back entrance of the London Library, and knocked. Knocked again eight times, then four, then one again.

The door clicked open.

"Password?" Grunted a rather burly librarian, comfy woollen cardigan stretching tightly over startlingly massive biceps,* and a tiny pair of glasses pinching the bridge of his nose.

*The correct Latin plural of biceps is, in fact, bicipites. The more you know!

Crowley squinted at the stack of books the librarian was casually carrying under one arm, as if just a single one of them wasn't heavy enough to brain a person with.

Among these rather impressive tomes was a thin, battered copy of Paddington Bear, translated into…

"Sachliteratur." Crowley responded confidently, the German word for non-fiction literature.

The bouncer librarian narrowed his eyes, and made to shut the door in Crowley's face.*

*Or rather,  _ through _ Crowley's face.

In any case, the door was going to be closed; and if a face was in the way, tough luck.

"Wait, wait!" Crowley's mind raced. "Uh, fiction is… Belletristik?"

The librarian grunted in approval, and stepped aside to let him in.

Crowley went, nodding his thanks, and wondered, not for the first time, what exactly the stipulations of "opposite" were.

The Library Society* clearly still existed, as did the parties and the procedures required to be granted access, including the book used to determine which language the password was in today… but the word itself had changed.

*A Society so Secret not even its members had ever heard of it.

(Board meetings were... confusing - and confused - to say the least.)

Damn complicated, that.

  
  
  


The London Library, for those Esteemed Readers that have never been, was a grand old institution… and, more importantly, host to even grander Library Parties.

Crowley wound his way through the corridors and halls, simply drifting from one place to another and watching Those In The Know amuse themselves.

One hall held singles of various ages, appearances, and genders - but always at roughly the same degree of nerdiness - fervently attempting to hit on each other with brilliant pick-up lines such as "stop me if you heard this one already, but, a neutron and a lepton walk into a bar" and "w-wanna read my t-thesis?".

In another room, librarians were reading Alice in Wonderland and Kafka under the influence of…  _ something, _ Crowley didn't actually know nor had any desire to, and he was forced to bypass the main reading room entirely after finding it occupied by a study orgy.*

*No. We will not elaborate. Please don't ask this of us.

It was, quite honestly, a little bit glorious.

The blatant hedonism in the vaguely Victorian building made him think of Aziraphale, who had, in fact, been the one to take Crowley along to his first Library Party,* and for a few moments, he could tell himself the angel was just behind him, having wandered off to watch the library cart race.

*Aziraphale had been a founding member of the Society, and head librarians  _ knelt _ when they encountered him on the street.**

**Crowley had a theory about them attempting to emulate the angel, and that was where the universal uniform of library workers had come from, elbow-patch jacket, bowtie, and sweater vest and all.

And oh, it was so  _ human. _

Parties and joy and excess, something about that soothed his troubled heart. To see that, even in this world entirely opposite of all he knew, librarians still had their version of raves in the Lightwell reading room, grinding against each other to the music,* in pursuit of whatever pleased them most.

*Classical - mostly Mozart, since the night was still young and randy.

The lights were also at the perfected luminosity to see well at, while not straining one's eyes. Strobe lights and such, the Libraries believed, were plain impractical, and a bit of a safety risk besides.

Just because you threw wild parties didn't mean you had to be  _ reckless! _

It was almost heady, to lick the Sinful aftertaste of indulgence from the air, and see all these happy little Mayfly creatures truly,  _ truly _ live.

If Crowley weren't so tired, he'd find himself a chair and a drink and watch them bustle all night long, perhaps the only thing in existence that he loved half as much as Aziraphale and his Bentley.

Humans. Glorious, gorgeous, wonderful humans.

If he couldn't curl up on his angel's couch and drift off to the sound of pages turning, then this was the next-best thing.

Tired to the very core of his bones, Crowley dragged himself deep into the depths of the Bookstacks - but not so deep that he couldn't still hear the laughter and movement far away - and laid down somewhere in the literature section, curled up comfortably in a nest of Wilde novels.*

"Oscar "Butch" Wilde, a hotblooded British male, had written such classics as The Importance of Being Silly and The Coal Sketch of Dorian Gray, and was known as the epitome of heterosexuality for nearly a century…

...until most loving - and rather  _ indiscreet _ \- letters from "An Unnamed Oxford Friend" were found among his possessions, rocking the literature world to its core.

It took him a while to actually fall asleep, mostly due to the head librarian and her assistant having a geriatric-yet-enthusiastic shag two rows over; and, after that, a rousing drunk rendition of Buddy Holly's "Everyday" coming from the vague direction of the Arts Room.

Crowley finally drifted off during the latter, breathing in the dust-and-paper air and dreaming - naturally - of Aziraphale.

* * *

And in a little flat above a bookshop in Soho, the angel who was - and yet wasn't - being dreamed of was tossing and turning in his bed, quite unable to find some rest.

"Oh, this is ridiculous." He finally murmured, and reached for his phone.

The call he attempted to place never went through.

It appears that, in all the excitement of the past day, Crowley had been carrying around Crawly's phone… which still had Notziraphale's number resolutely blocked.

* * *

_ A little boy of twelve years - blond-haired, a boy like a renaissance painting; but, oddly enough, lacking an unnamable  _ something _ in his bearing, a sort of power that was curiously absent - was clambering over the windowsill, holding tight to a rope made of knotted-together sheets and blankets, throwing the occasional furtive glance over his shoulder towards the door that led out to a home that wasn't his. _

_ The room wasn't his either, and neither were the sheets. _

_ They were all saying it was. The woman who called herself his mother, the man who said he was the boy's father, the servants and the secret service men, they were all so certain. _

_ But the boy knew, just  _ knew _ it was all wrong. _

_ And he needed to get home. _

_ The door slammed open. _

_ "WARLOCK!" A voice shouted, and without thinking, the boy scrambled out the window, nearly letting go of the rope, grasping it again halfway down, and finally landing quite uncomfortably in the rain-soaked begonias. _

_ "WARLOCK!", once more. _

_ The boy was already up on his feet, and running again. _

_ Running home. _

* * *

Crowley loitered in a café.

He'd been loitering there since the break of dawn, and was confident he would be able to loiter for many hours more, with a final burst of loitering around teatime.*

*Lurking, Crowley found, had never quite been his scene.

He was also nursing a coffee, which was despairing a little in the face of the maudlin mood it was nursed in.

This was a  _ Happy _ coffee, you see, made from the most well-adjusted beans, roasted in sheer delight, and brewed by the most obnoxiously cheerfully barista the café had to offer - Dave, over there by the counter, look, he's waving! Hi Dave! - and it took its duty very seriously.

The Happy coffee was meant to wake some poor soul up and cure their aching, give them energy and bliss before a tedious day of work or school or whatever else. That was its Destiny.

And… it didn't appear to be working on Crowley.

If the coffee weren't so Happy, it would be quite tempted to get maudlin itself, actually.

In fairness, Crowley had ample reason to loiter and nurse in misery.

Aziraphale was Notziraphale, and hated him, for a start. And he would have to face him again later today, face this blasted world and all the ways it was different, and, apparently, face a Second Apocalypse…?

It wasn't much to look forward to.

So that explained the misery.

The loitering was due to the frankly ghastly weather outside, and as for the nursing…

A gaggle of librarians had ushered him out before the sun went up, so desperately hungover* in yesterday's rumpled knitwear and with a pattern of "nude" lipstick and the imprints of various book covers adorning their cheeks, that Crowley had picked up a smidgen of second-hand headache just by standing close to them.

*Have you ever wondered why librarians shush you so fervently?  _ This _ is why. Their poor heads are pounding from yesternight's party, and yes, even the quietest of whispers put them in terrible agony. It's only self-defence, really.

With that, at least, the Happy coffee was helping.

Crowley took another sip, and acknowledged sombrely that loitering was quite boring, actually.

He snapped his fingers, and the glossy gossip magazine sticking out of the handbag of a nearby woman with far too dangly earrings suddenly found that it would much rather lie on the table in front of him.

Gossip magazines had been one of his, in the other world, and it had won him the Hell Award for Envy* and a commendation.

*It wasn't the only "Hellie" he'd won over the years, but to beat all contenders in a Mortal Sin category was nonetheless impressive.

This one was especially ghastly, all vibrant colours and scandalous misquotings. Crowley turned the cover page, and enjoyed the sensation of his neurons immediately shutting down one by one.

The magazine's table of contents featured such gems as "Queen wears hat adorned with plastic flamingos in bikinis - style icon!", "Cool it Banksy - this was one public appearance too many!", "I'm in love with my car - though our sex life is complicated" and a behind-the-scenes feature on some trite reality-TV competition show.*

*"The Great British Take-Off aims to find Britain's most accomplished amateur pilot, featuring hosts Sel Piedroyc and Mue Gerkins, returning judge Paul Hollywood - ever-encouraging and cheerful - and incomparable flying ace Mary Berry. After a crash cutting last season short, the show…"

Crowley began flipping through the pages for something that might catch his eye.

He paused on some paparazzi shots of "Honny McWitnesson and Lia Pantsonfire being True Gal Pals", as the tagline proclaimed.

They were quite obviously kissing. With tongue. On their wedding day.

Crowley snorted.

"They're  _ lesbians, _ Harold." He muttered, half-turning to the side to show Aziraphale…

...to… to show…

…

Right.

Crowley's maudlinity increased exponentially, and no droll personality test about which tropical fruit he was most like* could alleviate it.

*Crowley always got pineapple. Even on other kinds of tests. Pineapple.

He'd once tried to get an actual, genuine, non-miracled driver's license, and walked away with a fruit basket. It was quite vexing.

With a groan, he slumped back in his seat. It was no use. Aziraphale was, as usual, on the forefront of his thoughts. He needed to get him back. Needed to.

But. Facing Notziraphale.

Crowley shuddered.

Maybe he would loiter just a bit longer. He didn't want to break his streak, after all.

It was rather quiet in the café, given that it was the peak of brunching time. Crowley absently wondered why.*

*The rain drumming against the café's windows was by now 75% ice, which miiiiight prompt the Esteemed Reader to make the kind of logical connection that was still eluding Crowley at the moment.

Aside from the lady in dangly earrings - Crowley snapped the magazine back to her, now with all crosswords clues scrambled - and Dave the cheerful Barista, the only other people in the café were a student two hours away from a deadline, alternating between typing frantically and quiet sobbing, and two distinguished elderly gentlemen playing chess* by the window.

*Both of them were cheating, Crowley noted.

Yes, at chess. No, we don't know  _ how, _ either, but a demon can tell such things.

They also appeared, at any given time, to either be debating philosophy and politics, or bickering, or flirting, or an unholy combination of the latter two we shall refer to as blirting.

Crowley couldn't help feeling a little fond, watching them. They reminded him a little of Aziraphale and himself, except they were actually living his dream, enjoying what he'd always wanted so desperately.*

*And which he'd  _ had, _ he was slowly beginning to realise. Perhaps without the matching wedding rings and hand-holding, but better than being killed and distrusted, eh?

  
  
  


As an aside the Esteemed Reader will surely guess is not entirely unrelated, demons and angels have very, very slight psychic capabilities.

Nothing so fancy as true premonitions, or as nice and accurate as prophecies. No, their knowledge of the future was limited to two things only:

They knew when a birth was imminent… and when someone was about to die.

So, when a terrible sensation ran down Crowley's back, like syrup taken out of the freezer and being poured slow and sticky down his spine, he knew what it meant.

Someone was going to die, here and not-quite-now-but-soon.

Crowley glanced again at the two gentlemen. Both aged, long past their prime, one in a wheelchair, the other with a cane, and evidently long and happy lives behind the both of them.

It was the way of things. Perfectly natural. One of them was going to have a stroke, or his heart give out, and that would be that.

(Yes, there; the eyes of the one in the wheelchair unfocusing, one hand coming up to rub at his temple, swaying a little in his seat. Concerned noises from his companion - "should I take your rook or- ...Charles? Charles, are you alright?" - unacknowledged.)

Ambulance, hospital, morgue, grave. They all went down that path, in the end, blink-and-you'll-miss-them mayfly humans. Wouldn't do to get involved.

Or so Crowley's more reasonable cerebral areas were informing him even as he hastily stumbled to his feet, coffee cup shattering on the floor, rushing over to, to help, to something, to…

"Ah, don't fuss, I'm perfectly alright." The elderly gentleman lowered his hand, smiling brightly and without the glimmer of death about him at all. "Only distracted, I apologise. Your move, I believe?"

Crowley skittered to a halt in front of their table.

They both blinked up at him.

"Can we help you?" One of them asked politely.

"Hrngksorry." Crowley forced out, and hurried to return to his table as un-creep-like as possible, which… wasn't much.

It was making him perfectly unreasonable and paranoid, this situation. Notziraphale would laugh at him when he saw.*

*Aziraphale, now, would smile gently, and murmur something about better being safe than sorry, and delicately bless their health for safety.

But at least it had been a fluke. Nobody was going to die.

And then, turning to move back to his table, he accidentally ran straight into the chair of the student, just as they were taking a bite of their muffin with caffeine-shaky fingers.

Crowley, we should mention at this point, had experienced his fair share of death, and then some. He'd seen people waste away from illness, die violently and bloody, or just slip away gently in their sleep once their time had come. He could deal with that. He'd learned to.

It was the silly, preventable deaths that got him. The ones where it was only a matter of chance, a coin toss landing the wrong way up, and you're left kneeling over a body, looking to the heavens for salvation that will never come, and shouting  _ WHY?* _

*Yes, Crowley spoke from personal experience. It hadn't been a good day, that.

Those were the deaths that truly,  _ truly _ hadn't needed to happen, and they stayed with him forever.

The student, thoroughly jostled, sucked in a startled breath, muffin going down the wrong pipe, and…

Promptly started choking.

Crowley frowned at the strange gasping sounds behind him.

Turned back around.

Blinked.

"Well," he said, and then a very rude curse.

_ Why me? _ He thought, hurrying back to their side.  _ Why now, why here? Come on, God, if you're trying to teach me some sort of lesson, I'm still stuck trying to figure out the point of opposite-world, one at a time is enough, give me a- _

Bony arms went around the student's middle, Heimlich'd once, twice, thrice.

The student coughed…

And returned to breathing evenly.

"T-thank you!" They gasped, while Crowley was standing dumbstruck and Dave was applauding the saviour, the two gentlemen joining in.

(The lady with the dangly earrings must've left, since she was nowhere to be seen.)

IT WAS NOTHING. Death murmured abashedly, trying very hard not to meet Crowley's eyes, like a little child skeleton caught with their finger bones in the cookie urn.

Crowley's headache suddenly returned with a vengeance.

Without another word, he went over to the counter, and ordered another coffee. He needed a drink, desperately, and this was the best non-alcoholic option open to him.

Death stood next to him - and perhaps he had always been standing right there.

I DO NOT HAVE A PROBLEM. He said, sounding very much like someone With A Problem.

"You doooo." Crowley shrewdly pointed out, sounding, for his part, very tired.

……...MAYBE I DO. Death folded, like cheap origami. IT'S ONLY… THEY'RE SO FRAGILE. UNIQUE. ONCE THEY DIE, THEIR LIKE WILL NEVER BE SEEN AGAIN, AND... I FIND MYSELF  _ CARING _ FOR EVERY SINGLE LIFE ON THIS PLANET.

A grimace.*

*Well. A skull.

But with a distinctly grimacing air to it.

IT'S AWFUL, CROWLEY. I HATE IT.

_ Why? _ Crowley mouthed in the direction of the ceiling. He'd never signed up for this. Counselling with Death. Dealing with…

"So nobody on earth is dying anymore." Crowley stated dryly, hoping for an interruption, a correction, amendment, anything. "At all."

Death squirmed.

WHAT IS DYING, REALLY. He said, nervously. IT'S ONLY A WORD. A CHANGE OF STATE. NOTHING MUCH.

"Oh,  _ fuck." _ Crowley said, and buried his head in his hands.

IT'S NOT A  _ BIG _ PROBLEM, I ASSURE YOU! Death amended quickly. I'LL GET OVER IT, I W-

"Ow!" Dave suddenly exclaimed, pulling his hand away from the shards of Crowley's cup, a trickle of blood dripping down his finger

Upbeat as he generally was, he simply shrugged, grinned, and went to fetch a bandaid.

Death, meanwhile, had gone very, very pale.*

*The Esteemed Reader might argue that there was no way to tell with Death, really, seeing as he didn't exactly have a face to drain of blood.

We therefore assure them that Death was so rattled he was pale even for his usual bone-bleached standards, and leave it at that.

"What were you going to-" Crowley asked, a little muffled by his hands still covering the lower half of his face. "...you alright there?"

QUITE. Death said weakly. I'LL JUST… SIT DOWN. FOR A SECOND.

"Something the matter?"

NO, NO. I'M FINE, FINE.

"Was it the bloo-"

PLEASE DON'T TALK ABOUT IT. Death interrupted, managing somehow to look even paler.

Crowley desperately wanted to talk about it.

Death  _ couldn't see blood. _ He felt like this was worth mentioning.

On the other hand, Death also looked like he was about to throw up, never mind that there was nothing to throw up or with; and Crowley wasn't sure if he wanted to chance that.

"........riiiiiiiiiiight." He said, slowly, awkwardly patting Death on one bony shoulder. "Better?"

I HATE THIS. Death said again.

It came out a lot more plaintive this time.

* * *

  
  


_ A boy was running down the street, swerving around lampposts and the occasional passerby, drenched to the bone. _

OH. Death said, and pulled his cloak tighter around himself. I AM BEGINNING TO SEE WHAT YOU MEANT WITH "CLIMATE CHANGE".

_ He was half-sobbing and half-panting, looking over his shoulder every so often with a hunted look in his eyes. _

Crowley stepped out of the café behind him, and glared at the sky. The slew of raindrops that had been gearing up to drench him flinched back, and wisely thought better of it.

_ He was so scared, so, so scared. He didn't know these people, didn't know this place, he wanted to go home. _

"Never mind that." He shot the howling wind a similar look, but it wasn't so easily cowed. Strangely stubborn, wind, considering it was only air with delusions of grandeur. "It's paramount we fix… everything. This. Reality."

_ The secret service men were nowhere to be seen. Had he lost them? This was like a spy movie, except it was real and therefore no fun anymore. _

YOU CAN JUST SAY FIX  _ ME, _ YOU KNOW. Death sighed.

_ And he couldn't even… he was weak. Helpless. All he could do was run, run further, run faster, across the street and away, to mum, and Dog, and Pepper and Brian and Wensleydale, he wanted to go home! _

"Well. Yeah." Crowley shrugged. "It simply isn't sustainable, this. If you can't spend two minutes without saving…"

_ One step across the street, and he realised his mistake. _

_ Headlights, bright through the rain. _

_ "Mummy!" The boy meant to scream, but it came out wordless and terrified. _

A screech of tyres, a high, piercing scream, and Crowley whirled around just in time to see a car swerving on the road, too late to avoid hitting the little boy that had stumbled onto it, about to…

About to…

Death was beside him, and then he was not; instead dragging the boy to safety.

"...case in point." Crowley muttered tiredly, and headed over to him.

OH. Death would've blinked down at the boy fighting tooth and nail against his grasp, had he the necessary equipment.

HELLO, ADAM YOUNG. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

The boy's struggling instantly ceased, and he looked up at Death with wide, sparkling eyes, the likes of which Death couldn't recall ever having been looked at with.*

*He didn't usually inspire awe in children. The common reaction was more along the lines of Edvard Munch's  _ Scream. _

"You called me  _ Adam." _ The boy breathed, utterly amazed.

ER. Death cocked his skull to one side. YES…?

_ "FINALLY!" _ The child laughed, pure relief and joy, and did something else that Death had never, in all his long, long existence experienced before.

He threw his arms around Death, and  _ hugged _ him.

Crowley skidded to a stop.

Took off his shades.

Carefully wiped the lenses, and returned them to his face.

Nope. Still the same.

Huh.

Death didn't understand.

Children didn't hug him. He was  _ Death, NOBODY  _ hugged Death!

It was… nice, though, Death supposed. Very nice, soft and warm and making him feel vaguely fizzy-fluffy inside.

It felt like he had always believed being alive would feel like.

...THERE THERE? Death tried, and very, very stiffly petted Adam's head.

"Adam?" Crowley frowned. "What the-"

And before he got another word out, Adam had transferred the hug to him, babbling about secret service men and waking up in an unfamiliar room and nobody believing him and everybody insisting his name was, of all things,  _ Warlock. _

* * *

_ The Hellhound padded across the grass, growling in anticipation. He had been refused, a year ago. Sent back unnamed with his tail between its legs, by the master he was meant to love above all else. It had confused him, terribly so. Wasn't he wanted? Wasn't he needed, loved? _

_ But it was different, now.  _ Different.

_ Ah. _

_ There he was. _

_ A boy among the trees, not  _ quite _ like the Hellhound remembered in a way he couldn't really put his paw on - but then again, he was a Hellhound. He hadn't been bred for memory capacity. _

_ He  _ felt _ like His Master, though, so the Hellhound supposed that was quite alright. _

_ The boy that was His Master appeared to be crying; curled up under a tree, face buried in soot-covered hands, the grass around him charred. _

_ The Hellhound approached. _

_ His Master gasped, but not in fright - in awe. Yes, yes, the Hellhound liked that. _

_ A dirty little hand, reaching out. Shaggy fur spreading from where the boy brushed his flank, shaping itself in accordance with His Master's unspoken wishes; fangs materialising in his maw, wicked claws on his paws. _

_ His Master was watching him with eyes that were wide and terrified… but not of the Hellhound. Of the world around them. _

_ Well. He was going to protect him from all that, the Hellhound promised. His Master wanted a beast to protect him, and that was what he was going to be: _

_ A very Bad Boy - which was as close as a Hellhound got to being a Good Boy, of course. _

_ And he was going to be called Ripper. _

_ He could already see that in His Master's eyes. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, did you recognise the other fandom? ;)
> 
> Credit for the shushing librarians footnote goes to my beloved Nugget, who made me crack up in the middle of the street over it. <3
> 
> I have my first exam of this term tomorrow - Modern British Drama, hooray - so wish me luck!  
> ^-^ <3


	9. Just Four-Wheeled Friends Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exam done, let's hope I did alright, and learning for the two on Monday doesn't kill me...  
> Anyway, new chapter, enjoy!

"Hello, is this the Dowling residence?" Notziraphale said, smartphone balanced between shoulder and cheek as he was making notes in today's newspaper.* "Yes. Yes, it's Mr Cortese. Warlock's tutor until last year. Yes."

*Most of the headlines contained the words "miraculous recovery", "survives" or "brush with death", apart from the ones remarking on freak weather conditions, and the editorial on dinosaurs being really dumbosaurs.

"I was only wondering, how is he? I had, ah, pressing engagements to pursue since last year, but I've often wondered… odd behaviour in the last few days, you say? I see, I see. And-"

Notziraphale dropped his pen, and quickly reached up to hold the phone properly.

_ "Run away from home? _ Warlock!? Oh. Oh, how awful."

This was… a bit not good, to say the least.

"And there's no trace? None whatsoever?"  _ Damn. _ "No, yes, I see, I..." he trailed off.

Squinted out the shop's window, through the frankly ghastly weather, at the tall figure walking like a snake - ergo, without legs - and the smaller, vaguely familiar one beside him.

"I'll call you back." Notziraphale said curtly, and ended the call.

* * *

"Crawly!" He hissed over the bell-equivalent of canned laughter announcing their entrance. "Where did-"

"Crowley." Crowley corrected sharply. "Crowley, from a different reality. As I told you time and time again, and you refuse to believe. Well, I hope you'll believe me  _ now." _

And suddenly, Death stood in Notziraphale's bookshop - though, of course, he had always been there, and always would be.*

*Death was not, however, in  _ Aziraphale's _ bookshop, in the real world. The unwelcoming atmosphere truly was  _ that _ much of a deterrent.

Nothing had died** in the shop since 1821, and the spiders in the dark corners were beginning to get rather confused over their apparent immortality...

**We would like to inform our Esteemed Nitpicky Reader that Aziraphale's discorporation during the events of last year didn't count.

Crowley crossed his arms triumphantly. "Tell him, Death."

ER. YES. Death said, shifting from one feet to another like a child caught in the middle while their parents were arguing. CROWLEY IS TELLING THE TRUTH, I'M AFRAID.

Notziraphale blinked, very slowly.

...SORRY. Death added.

Adam, meanwhile, was munching on one of the scones Notziraphale had set aside for himself. Running away from home was hungry work.

"A word, please." Notziraphale said, a little faintly, and promptly pulled Crowley with him into the back room.

* * *

Once there, he fisted his hands into the lapels of Crowley's suit, and slammed him against the wall.

"How," he whispered harshly, face just a hint too close, "in  _ God's Name, taken very much in vain,  _ did you convince  _ Creation's Shadow _ to play along in your charade!?"

"By  _ it not being a charade, _ Aziraphale." Crowley pointed out, calmly and reasonably.

And then he added "duh", because even if he was definitely not the Most Bastard in the room, he was and remained a demon still, and sometimes had to prove that he wasn't  _ nice. _

Notziraphale stared at him, eyes wide and desperate -  _ and so blue, oh, so blue _ \- in exactly the same sort of expression as Aziraphale always had when Crowley revealed to him that there truly were no more biscuits, just like he'd told Aziraphale a thousand times.

Confused, shocked, afraid, angry, sad; and most of all betrayed, because what he'd believed to be the truth suddenly found itself shamefully lie-like.

Crowley braced himself for vehement denial. If Notziraphale was half as good at deluding himself as his counterpart, it was going to be impressive. Or maybe fury again, lashing out. Both?

And then Notziraphale's grip slackened, hands falling useless to his side.

He stepped back.

"...and where's Crawly, then, if you're not him?" He asked, and it was ever so strange.

He sounded  _ lost, _ of all things.

"Why would you care?" Crowley immediately shot back, more of a knee-jerk blurted-out response than anything.

"I don't." Notziraphale said.

(Quiet, now. Quieter even than those few pensive moments on the train.)

"He can rot, for all I care."*

*Some demons could feel lies, taste the Sin in the words.

Not Crowley though. Never been his strong suit, and he had plenty of other talents to make up for it, the way he saw it.

And yet, he'd sell what was left of his soul to know if Notziraphale  _ meant _ that.

"Ang-" Crowley started.

"Anyway!" Notziraphale interrupted, seemingly pulling all his rattled parts back together and tightly strapping them in. "You've found Warlock. Good work, Cra- Crowley. Seems you're good for something, after all."

"Yeah, no." Crowley ran an anxious hand through his hair. "I'm not the only reality-scrambled one, Aziraphale, and I'm taking it better than them. 'Warlock' there is the Adam from my world, understandably quite confused at being referred to as Warlock by people claiming to be his family, and for some reason entirely without his powers; and Death is, well…"

He went over to one of the corners, grabbed a book, and slammed it over a fly on the wall.

Death appeared in an instant, shoved the book away, plucked the fly from the wall, and gently prodded it back into flight.

WHAT? He glanced over his bony shoulder, looking rather guilty. SOMETHING THE MATTER?

"I'll say!" Notziraphale immediately shot back with startled vehemence, and Crowley nearly laughed.

"...Death has A Problem." He concluded solemnly.

Death, for his part, resented that remark, and grumbled his way back to the main showroom.

Since the time for a hate shag against the back room wall had come and gone, they both followed him out.

* * *

"This is… inopportune." Notziraphale allowed, still shooting Death and Adam somewhat dubious looks, and Crowley something he was probably  _ trying _ to make less downright hostile.

"That's what I've been saying." Crowley sighed. "So. Will you help?"

A brief, tenuous silence…

-broken by a bright, too-bright flash of lightning sparking down and hitting the street outside, accompanied by an especially loud crack of thunder, enough to thoroughly set the little bones in all their ears rattling.*

*The only common ground that all four of them shared.

Adam yelped, and made an aborted motion as if to indicate he'd wanted to run up to Notziraphale - closest to him - and hide behind him, but thought better of it.*

*As unthinkable as it may be, Dear Reader, this version of Aziraphale had none of the original's soft huggability, despite being of the same stature. It was something about the attitude, maybe, making it very clear that he wouldn't tolerate anyone getting all up in his business - unless they were buying from him, naturally.

Death, too, flinched, and then seemed very cross with himself for it, while Crowley found himself nearly turning serpentine for a few shocked breaths before he got his sudden urge to have a tail and nothing else* under control.

*It was a knee-jerk reaction, at times of great distress, to just not have knees anymore altogether, and simply slither to safety in the guise of a harmless noodle.

Regrettably, you didn't exactly have much range of motion, being a snake, and if anyone called your harmlessness bluff…

Let's just say there was a reason why Crowley suppressed these instincts.

Notziraphale rushed to the window, peering outside at the spectacle that, at this point, could give Prospero's Tempest a run for its money. The world had never seen such a storm… or, at least,  _ this _ world hadn't.

It was, quite literally, apocalyptic.

"Well." Notziraphale muttered. "Seeing as Heaven and Hell were  _ quite obviously _ correct in their assumptions regarding the End of the World…"

He turned, businesslike all of a sudden.

"Gentlemen - and gentleentity signifying existence's inherent mortality - I do believe we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."*

*Crowley flinched a little at that word, just like he couldn't hear someone say "effort" without giggling.

"I, for my part, want to stop an unidentified all-powerful entity from destroying my universe. You, on the other hand, would like to find something like, say, an all-powerful entity, for example, to send you home to yours."

He spread his hands, all suave salesman trying to nail down a customer.

"I  _ do _ believe we can work something out. The only problem will be finding where-"

The doorbell rang, announcing the barging-in* of a well-dressed older gentleman only barely managing to shield a stack of maps from the elements howling at his back.

*But a polite sort of barging-in, very clear about not wanting to intrude, and  _ terribly _ apologetic.

"Begging your pardon, Mr Fell, sir, but this really is quite urgent, I apologise ever so much for-"

MP Shadwell stopped in his tracks at the sights of Death and Crowley, with whom he associated less-than-pleasant memories.

"My Lords." He said warily, taking a step back towards the door and the storm, but promptly thinking better of it when another too-close clap of thunder sounded.

("Is that-" Adam whispered.

"Yeah." Crowley sighed. "Yeah, it is."

"...wow."

_ "Yeah.") _

"Ah. Mr Shadwell." Notziraphale reached for a book on the shelf behind him without even looking. "Can I perhaps interest you in-"

IS NOW REALLY THE TIME TO MAKE A SALE?* Death interrupted, either quite annoyed, or just having bumped his funny bone.

*He was quite tempted to add a DEATH WAITS FOR NO MAN, AFTER ALL joke, but seeing as he had only just been complaining about time and waste thereof, he felt like that would be hypocritical.

(Plus, he was. Maybe. At least  _ open _ to waiting, at the present moment.)

"Well,  _ excuse me _ for trying to turn a profit." Notziraphale sniffed. "What do you want, then?"

"Ah." Shadwell distractedly shifted the maps from one arm to the other. "Sir, I am afraid to say I have discovered circumstances that are most,  _ most _ distressing, if not quite catastrophic- no."

He steeled himself.

"In fact, and please do not think worse of me for so bold a claim, old boy - in fact, I would call them  _ apocalyptic. _ "

A moment of silence, in which Shadwell had quite obviously expected gasps to occur.

"Literally." He added. "Do not assume this to be metaphor or hyperbole, I do mean that the Antichrist-"

"We're  _ aware." _ Notziraphale, now that it had been established that no sales would be made, seemed quite a bit more impatient. "Get on with it, man."

"O-of course, sir." Shadwell hastily inclined his head in a show of respect. "As representative of supernatural interests, I naturally felt obliged to investigate further, and… the leylines, sir, most worrying."

He fumbled with the maps, spreading them out across the desk. Swirls and curls, patterns and seemingly random squiggles, rough and improvised, but somehow all very obviously centering on…

"Tadfield." Shadwell intoned, more poshly than Tadfield would ever have reason to be pronounced. "A perfectly average hamlet of diminutive size, up until yesterday morning; now, one would not go amiss calling it a hotspot of various energies, one more destructive than the last. I  _ have _ been attempting most ardently to gather companions for an investigative expedition, but, alas…"*

*MP Shadwell had, before coming to the bookshop, quite literally contacted every single supernatural entity in the greater London area, all of which were apparently occupied washing their hair, or, in one case, tentacles - aside from Crowley, due to the aforementioned less-than-pleasant associations.

He'd even attempted to commune with both Heaven and Hell through prayer and blood-spells respectively, but Heaven hadn't picked up, and he'd been placed on hold** by Hell.

**"Rest assured, Beelzebub has a devil put aside for you. Please stay in the line!", followed by whichever song has been stuck in your head for ages, and you  _ just _ managed to purge from your memory.

Notziraphale raised one eyebrow, glancing over to Crowley and Adam, as well as Death, who had pulled a glossy, freshly-printed copy Jane Austen's  _ Mercy and Modesty _ from the shelf and currently muttering something about WELL, THAT AWFUL MR DARCY IS A PIECE OF WORK to the book.

"Shadwell," Crowley grinned, stalking over to shake his hand, "seems you're in luck."

_ (And so are we,  _ he added mentally. The sheer convenience of him appearing just as they were in need of a destination… evil tongues might call it shoddy plotting, but we - and Crowley, of course - insist it's quite ingenious and practical, so those evil tongues can go wag themselves for all we care.)

* * *

The next problem was transportation.

MP Shadwell informed them (apologetically so) that most trains weren't running in the face of this once-in-an-existence storm and it's tendency to fell trees and electric pylons alike, and the countryside busses weren't faring much better.*

*The head of the bus drivers' union, a dear old man named O'Brian, had taken one look out the window and - very prudently, all things considered - said  _ "oh Hell no" _ and sent everybody home to be with their families.

No cabs were to be gotten, either - but that had nothing to do with the impending Apocalypse, that was simply London. Shadwell had no car of his own - Adam deemed this very climate-responsible, and solemnly shook his hand - and the drivers of government cars seemed to have followed their bus-colleagues' example.

Being therefore rather short on options, Crowley had suggested stealing a car.

Notziraphale had… not been a fan of this idea, and that's all we can say on the matter without copious censoring.

He had, however suggested an alternative:

Using a miracle* to steal  _ Crowley's _ car  _ back. _

*Heaven's policy on what constituted a "frivolous" miracle had needed some adjustment after Gabriel had miracled Beelzebub a new summer dress-suit for the fifteenth time, and, at this point, the Department of Miracle Allocation tended to simply sigh and wave it through before continuing to bang their heads against their desks.

Crowley, understandably, had been very much in favour of that, longing for the reassuring presence of the Bentley and eager to see the dear old machine.

(Does the Esteemed Reader think he really should know  _ better _ by now?

Because  _ we _ certainly do...)

So, that might, perhaps, explain why Crowley was now sitting in the entrance of the bookshop, weeping uncontrollably while Adam and Death were both patting one shoulder each.

Because the car Notziraphale had just miracled to the curb in front of them was, of course,  _ Crawly's _ car.

Which had not been stolen at all, and had, in fact, been standing right in its accustomed parking spot all this time.*

*Yes, dear Reader, this is indeed the payoff to the earlier foreshadowing. Enjoy.

Crowley glanced up at the VW bus in all its rusty glory, and immediately resumed sobbing.

"S'okay, Mr Crowley." Adam said. "Well. S'not. But it's no use cryin' about it, is it?"

Crowley, like anyone told "don't cry", promptly cried harder.

THERE THERE. Death said helplessly. Compassion really was a curse when all your experience with comforting amounted to once telling War to BUCK UP after she'd been inconsolable over the end of WW1. THERE THERE?

MP Shadwell, as any reasonably posh Brit, was fervently stiffening his upper lip and pretending  _ none of that fuss _ was happening, while discreetly handing Crowley his embroidered handkerchief.

Now, we're not sure if the Esteemed Reader truly  _ grasps _ the horror that is this particular Volkswagen model, so allow us to illustrate - always keeping in mind the gorgeousness of the vintage car Crowley had been expecting to jump into existence before him.

Imagine, if you will, the sort of car one will think back to proudly and fondly when in one's middle age, that first vehicle one had been able to afford and driven all through the summer of 1967; virginities had been given away freely on that backseat, various hallucinogens taken, and you know, just  _ know _ that you'll never feel as free as you felt behind this very car's wheel.

Now. Remove the rose-tinted glasses, and take another look.

Take in the sharp, crumbling red of rust. The sad, deflating tires. The scratched and dirty windows, the hopelessly-bent antenna, and the absolutely horrid graffiti* covering every inch of it.

*Highlights included a rather crude caricature of some 14th-century saint in far too little clothing, something very violent and bloody we shall not describe for those readers that are faint of heart or have just eaten, and a colourful thing that read "MAKE WAR, NOT LOVE" in comic sans.

Heaps of random rubbish in the back, a cascade of chipped decorative beads in garish shades hanging from the cracked rear view mirror, and the suspension made every molehill feel like a mountain.

There was a strange smell, which only got stranger the longer one left the motor running, and no policeman had ever stopped it, if just because they feared it carried a terrible curse - and any drug test they did would read positive by sheer proximity, anyway.

Turning the key was always a gamble, ideally resulting in the engine starting up, at worst electrocuting whoever sat in the passenger seat, with many and varied alternatives in between.*

*A personal favourite is "nothing, but the opossum in the trunk gets a little excitable", which, after the third time it came up, would be replaced by "'ARGH GET IT OFF MY FACE GET IT OFF MY FACE!"

And this only barely scratched the surface of all the Volkswagen was and stood for.

(Incidentally, don't scratch its surface, the rust may well be all that holds the damned thing together.)

Crying was very much a legitimate reaction to as much as merely passing it in the street, and even more so if you expected a Prince Among Automobiles in its stead.

"...I take it you drive a different model in your world?" Notziraphale asked, shooting the VW a rather dirty look* over his shoulder.

*Though, when compared to the bus, it was really more of a  _ clean _ look.

"Ngkfsahaha-a-a-aa," Crowley blubbered miserably, and wished Notziraphale was the kind of person who wasn't likely to bless your arms off if you tried to hug him.

Aziraphale, upon witnessing such a breakdown in Crowley, would probably kneel down beside him, gently take his hands, and tell him whichever kind, reassuring nonsense seemed to have the most effect, fussing terribly until Crowley felt better.

Notziraphale was, of course, cut from a different cloth.

"Well, can't be helped." He said, grabbed Crowley by the scruff of his neck, and simply threw him into the driver's seat.*

*Incidentally, this might've been the kindest way to get Crowley into the Volkswagen, seeing as the effect isn't unlike having to enter freezing cold water. Gradual procession is ultimately worse than simply canonballing in, flailing for ten seconds, and then being as fine as one can be while one's limbs and privates are gradually freezing off.

"Everyone in!" Notziraphale shouted over the storm, moving to the passenger door, while Crowley was scrambling to seat himself in a way that ensured touching as little of the upholstery as possible. "Chop chop!"

Death wasn't in the backseat - but then he was, and always had been, you could tell by the smell.

Adam and MP Shadwell piled in as well, and then, they were good to go.

Crowley steeled himself, holding eye contact with the dashboard.

"Right." He muttered. "I don't like you, and you probably don't like me - sorry for kicking your tyre, by the way - but we're stuck with each other."

Crowley shifted in the seat, and grimaced at the slight stickiness.

"Or possibly  _ to _ each other. Anyway, neither of us has a choice in this, so let's just… do what we must here and pretend we're driving and being driven by the entities we prefer, alright?"

The VW gave off a distinctly sullen air, but when Crowley took a deep breath - which he instantly regretted,  _ ew _ \- and turned the key, the motor purred* into life without much fuss.

*Well. When we say  _ purred, _ we really mean the kind of purring you'd hear from a centuries-old cyborg cat with bronchitis, whose artificial respiratory system has a few loose screws and probably an entire family of bats living in it.

Crowley triumphantly glanced over at Notziraphale, who only rolled his eyes and motioned for him to get on with it.

The gear shift was a little stubborn, to say the least, but it finally complied with a sickening  _ crrrrrrunch _ -ing sound you felt in your teeth; and then, the VW began to move.

Haltingly, and with very strange noises that could just about be heard over the pitter-patter of rain on the roof - but move it did, and that was all they really needed.

Crowley shifted into second gear, to the puzzlement of both Notziraphale and the VW, who had never moved itself faster than at a pace that made snails look like champion sprinters.*

*Crawly was a very, very careful driver, which was due just as much to the technical limitations of the Volkswagen as it was due to Crawly's preference of annoying people by driving 25 on the highway and basking in the sheer undiluted  _ fury _ directed at him. Bonus points if there was an ambulance or police car behind him.

"Well then, gentlemen." Shadwell announced grandly. "To adventure."

"Adventure!" Adam repeated excitedly. That sounded like a grand old time!

ADVENTURE? Death repeated worriedly. That sounded rather dangerous.

Notziraphale, for his part, opted for pensively gazing out at the storm-ravaged streets of London, and Crowley decided music was in order.

_ Well. At least Crawly has some semblance of taste. _ Crowley thought, sifting gingerly through the trash-filled glove compartment to unearth pirated cassettes of Velvet Underground, the Beatles, David Bowie and Nirvana.

Looking forward to some Best of Queen, Crowley put the Beatles on and pressed play.

(Yes. Yes, dear Reader, we agree. He really  _ should _ know better by now.)

Freddie Mercury's voice rang out through the shoddy speakers, impossibly perfect; and for the briefest of moments, all was right in the world again.

And then, Crowley realised he was singing  _ bloody opera,* _ and despaired.

*And not 1987's  _ Barcelona _ \- which Crowley considered something of a masterpiece - but the stuffy sort of opera he and Aziraphale sometimes met up during, simply because all the patrons in the theatre were guaranteed to have hearing aids entirely incapable of picking up their furtive whispering over the music.

"Aziraphale." He said very, very softly, dreading the answer with all his heart and soul, "Does a band called  _ Queen _ exist in this universe?"

"Never heard of them." Notziraphale shrugged dismissively.*

*Now, from  _ Aziraphale, _ that wouldn't be saying much.  _ Aziraphale  _ hadn't heard of  _ any _ band formed this side of the 1800s.

Notziraphale, Crowley highly suspected, would be a little more well-versed then.

"And the, the singer here, Freddie Mercury, he didn't, perchance, record rock albums on the side?"

"Not that I know of. Very big name in opera, though."

"Right." Crowley muttered, feeling strangely fragile all of a sudden. "...right."

He would've liked to simply slide down and curl up under his seat in misery for a few hours; regrettably, this was not an option.

So he tightened his fingers around the steering wheel, squared his jaw, and drove on, trying very hard to forget he was currently living in a world that had no Bohemian Rhapsody in it.

...turns out it wasn't really the kind of thing you forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends Act 2, and we proceed to Act 3 - The Road Trip!
> 
> I really wrecked Crowley at the end here... no Bentley, no Queen, now THIS is Hell!
> 
> Hope you liked it, do drop me a comment if you have the time!  
> ^-^ <3


	10. On A Collision Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROAD TRIP ROAD TRIP ROAD TRIP!!!  
> <3

May we ask, dear Esteemed Reader, whether you have ever been on a road trip?

And we do not mean the pleasant type you embark on with your teenage friends the very second one of you finally gets their driving license, with long-prepared mixtapes/playlists on repeat and a steady diet of greasy fast-food only sometimes interrupted by bags of candy.

No, we are referring to another situation entirely; in which you and your family - already, a massive red flag is hoisted up into the air - are driving at least six hours to visit your least-favourite Aunt Gardinia (the one that smells like stale cat food) with the A/C broken, your little brother throwing a tantrum periodically, and squashed cucumber-marmalade sandwiches as your only fare.

That is a True road trip.

Crowley, for his part, could very much sympathise with the latter.

The A/C of the Volkswagen was not only broken, but rather in a state where it seemed entirely unimaginable to ever have worked in the first place, it was _that_ far gone; the music warbled and crackled and, most importantly, was Not Queen, so Crowley had turned it off half an hour ago; and all they had in lieu of food was a tin of dubious brownies under the backseat Crowley rather suspected had been placed there by the VW's original owners back in the 70s, and were not fit for consumption by anyone human or susceptible to hallucinogens.

And that listing of suitably unpleasant factors didn't even include the _people_.

Notziraphale was currently the least pain in Crowley's backside, and considering his general attitude towards all things Crowley, that was a bar set punishingly high.

Adam, for one, was reading a copy of the Old Sagittarian Digest which he'd found crammed into the gap between backseat bench and door, and complaining about the reporting he personally felt was rather subpar* while kicking his feet against the back of Crowley's seat.

*Adam had gotten as far as "the alien hoax" before making a displeased sound and going off on a tirade.

Death, sat in the middle of the back seat, was in the process of knitting a lovely shroud, needles and fingers clickety-clacking obnoxiously loud, and chomping his way through the brownie tin, letting the crumbs go everywhere, and the actual bites who-knows-where, he certainly didn't give the general impression of a man with a digestive tract.

Mr. Shadwell, to his right,* was occupied giving backseat drivers all around the world a bad name, map spread out before him and continually giving contradicting directions, meaning well, certainly, but unhelpful nonetheless.

*The Esteemed British Reader may be noting that Adam is therefore kicking Crowley's seat in the left half of the car, and shake their head in confusion. We might inform them that in bizarre worlds such as this alternate one (or regular Europe and America), a car is driven on the right side of the road, with the driver on the left side of the vehicle.

Crowley had not been aware of this until pulling out from in front of Notziraphale's bookstore into opposing traffic, though he had learned very quickly from this point on.

And Crowley, Crowley was silently contemplating how easy it would be to kill them all and make it look like a tragic car accident.

"Pardon me, old sport, but I do believe we ought to take a left at the next… ah, blast, you missed. Well, nothing for it, there's another in a kilometre*, or we might…"

*Opposite-Britain used the metric system in parts, as did the Opposite-USA, and how very impractical that the rest of the world did not.

"Look at how they write 'bout the Yeti! S'like they don' even believe he exists! Shoddy journalism, is what this is. If me an' Pepper an' Brian an' Wensley were writing newspapers, we wouldn't let them lie to people like tha', no we wouldn't!"

>clicketyclacketyclickclickclacketyclack< ...ARE THERE ANY MORE BROWNIES?

Crowley's fingers twitched and dug harder into the steering wheel.

"Oh, I say, we could go back and take the right…"

"An' the poor swamp men! Did you know about the swamp men bein' endangered? S'because of the corporations…"

>clickyclackyclicketyclickclick< ONLY, I SEEM TO HAVE GOTTEN THROUGH HALF THE TIN ALREADY...

Another twitch, this time in his eyelid.

Crowley was so, _so_ close to stepping on the brakes, turning around in his seat, and put the fear of G- Sat- of _Crowley_ in them. He was.

But Notziraphale would doubtlessly be cross with him if he did, and Crowley was rather committed to proving himself a better demon than Crawly.*

*Or a better _person_ , rather, seeing as a good demon would've already given them all the pox and collected their souls for Hell's Eternal Hiking Trip, one of the greatest tortures and, if this journey was any indication, _just_ where they belonged.

So Crowley gritted his teeth, fixed his eyes on the hypnotic back-and-forth of the windscreen wipers, and vowed to endure it a-

"WILL YOU ALL _SHUT UP!"_ Notziraphale suddenly roared, twisting around to glare murderously at their three companions. "I'VE HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH OUT OF YOU THREE, SO!"

He pointed at Shadwell. " _YOU_ PUT THAT MAP AWAY!"

At Death. " _YOU_ TAKE THAT OFF THE NEEDLES, IT'S BIG ENOUGH!"

At Adam. " _YOU_ READ SOMETHING FORTIFYING RATHER THAN THIS DRIVEL!"

And, with a snap of his fingers, the Old Sagittarian Digest was replaced with the Great British Encyclopedia.

Adam knew better than to complain, and started on the entry A - Aardvark.*

*"Animal with prominent nasal protrusion…"

"And," Notziraphale continued darkly, "if ANY of you, human or Antichrist or transcendent concept beyond time and space, say even ONE more word without explicit permission from ME, I WILL throw you out of this car. Are we clear?"

Adam and Shadwell nodded quickly.

Death opened his jaw and raised one bony finger, as if to complain.

"ARE. WE. CLEAR."

Death closed his jaw with a snap, and nodded.

It was suddenly very, very quiet in the car.

(Well.

Except for the insistent rapping and tapping and clattering of hail against the roof of the Volkswagen, and the occasional clap of thunder in the much-too-short distance.

But as quiet as it was ever going to get.)

And there, there was the difference.

Aziraphale And Notziraphale were deceptively alike in their manner and bearing, their looks, but in this…

They were both bastards, of course.

But Aziraphale played his bastardry close to his heart, a well-kept secret he only let out when he was truly, _truly_ enraged, and hid under layers upon layers of gentle kindness and polite pleasantries in everyday life.

Notziraphale, in contrast, was proudly and unapologetically bastardish at all times. Brash and impatient and curt at the slightest annoyance, uninclined to buttering anyone up who wasnt going to buy something from him, and if there was a core of kindness beneath all that, then Crowley doubted he would ever have the privilege of glimpsing it.

Aziraphale might've hummed and hemmed and fussed, until finally, politely, requesting a moment of silence; his opposite-self cheerfully ripped them a new one.

(And, to his chagrin, Crowley couldn't help being impressed. Just a little bit.)

Notziraphale settled back into his seat more comfortably, and let out an annoyed little huff of breath.

"Put on some music, demon." He gestured at the blaupunkt.* "And be snappy about it."

*Gelbpunkt, actually. These differences were starting to get on Crowley's nerves.

"Yessir!" Crowley only half-joked, and hurried to root around the glove compartment for a cassette of I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Queen.

WHY DOES _HE_ GET TO TALK WITHOUT PERMISSION? Death complained under his breath.*

*Aside from the fact that Death had not breathed since the once in the fourth century BC, "JUST TO SEE WHAT ALL THE FUSS IS ABOUT", his thoughts were also directly spoken into other people's minds, so this description of his speech is entirely useless aside from the poetic function inherent in language for the purpose of literaricity, which we sadly cannot do without.

Notziraphale's head snapped back around.

(The rest of him failed to keep up, and Crowley winced. Aziraphale usually kept better stock of what a human body realistically could and could not do.)

Death weighed his options.

Placed two bony fingers at his teeth, and mimed zipping non-existent lips shut.

Notziraphale's head slowly swivelled into a front-facing position again.

(The wrong way, Crowley noted.)

"You know," Crowley said, because he clearly did not think being killed by Notziraphale should be only a one-time opportunity. "He has a point. Double standards and all."

"Hm." Notziraphale hummed contemplatively. "So he does."

And just as the gelbpunkt clicked into motion and Freddie Mercury launched into _"Il cavallo scalpita"_ , he threw himself at Crowley, and did his level best to smite him straight out of, if not existence, then at least the bus.

* * *

Anathema Device stood at the side of an empty road in the middle of nowhere, grateful for the ten coats Mrs Potts had insisted to wrap her in, and hopefully holding out one thumb in the universal sign for "I'd like to be abducted please".*

*"And if your secret underground dungeon is somewhere near Tadfield, well, that would be just _super_ , thank you."

She'd hitchhiked her way this far in the past day, and she was confident the Lord would deliver her unto a motel soon enough, if not her final destination.

A clap of thunder. No vehicle far and wide.

"T-t-the Lord works in m-m-mysterious motorways," she reminded herself, and tried to look even more like a Servant of God in need of help - or, if that would not work, at least like somebody who was lost and easy to prey upon.

Peering into the dark, and doing her best to keep the hail from getting into her eyes, she thought…

Two pinpricks of light, carried closer and closer by a shadowy thing in-between.

Anathema's heart leapt higher. At last!

She knew, of course, that miserable standing around under the onslaught of the elements was Necessary Suffering for Prophets of the Almighty (those who had a place in His Great Plan), but personally, Anathema had always had trouble understanding why you couldn't stand around under a nearby awning, and wear less scratchy socks while you were at it.

Stepping out onto the street, Anathema was confident the car would stop for her. Mrs Potts always did say that the Lord rewarded those who waited patiently, and Anathema had done quite enough of that for the last few hours.

The car drew closer. Anathema took off her glasses, wiped them on jacket number three from the outside inwards, and put them back on.

It seemed to be veering left and right in strange, irregular patterns, as if…

She scrunched her entire face up, and peered with an intensity most people could only dream of peering.*

*She was, in this regard, without peer, if you'll pardon the terrible pun.

In the front seats were two people entwined in a position that seemed, to Anathema's Inner Mrs Potts, very Un-Christian in some way she had not had the sexual education to explain further; but which, she supposed, might also be indicative of a wrestling match, with which the Lord probably took less issue.

Surely, they would disengage from their bout of… something-that-made-Anathema-a-little-uneasy-but-nonetheless-intrigued-her, very soon, and halt the car to let her in.

Anathema smiled brightly and a little unnervingly, the way Mrs Potts had instructed her to smile around people she knew were destined to aid her in The Cause.*

*Or could, at least, be duped into believing they were.

The car drew ever closer, and was more violently jerking from side to side now.

She could now see that it was a VW bus - "heathenly steeds of the most wicked of witches, Anathema dear!" - and that, in the back, there was a little boy cowering under a book he held like a shield over his head, and a large, moving map.

Anathema frowned. The car really _did_ seem as if it was getting out of control…

No, no, the Lord would preserve her, surely, sure-

And then, her eyes met with the last figure.

A dark cloak, and a bony face shining in the meagre light inside the vehicle, and Anathema knew, with that instinctive terror born into every human heart, that she was staring Death in the eye.*

*Death stared back equally horrified.

The VW jerked once more, and she realised with a sinking feeling that it was not slowing down, was speeding up, in fact, and was going to collide with her head-on.*

*Funny, Anathema thought. She'd never imagined Death would come for her driving a rusty old Volkswagen, holding a tin of brownies and a half-finished knitting project. God truly _did_ move in extremely ineffable ways…

Anathema did what all Good Christian Girls did when quite literally staring their impending Death in the face:

She quickly crossed herself, and thought as many naughty thoughts as she could.

(If her days among the living were numbered - and that number was rapidly approaching zero - she would, at the very least, have liked to contemplate genitals for a few measly seconds. Just to have an idea of what she'd been missing.*

*A lot, it turned out.

Damn.)

* * *

"Oh, for-" Crowley tried to twist Notziraphale's arm behind his back, and was failing miserably. "I'm _driving,_ you absolute-"

"An angel does - OW! - NOT go back on their-"

"Mind the ROAD!"

"Mind _yourself_ , you f-"

"Er, chaps?" Shadwell said, peering over the edge of the map. "I do believe there's a young lady-"

"STAY OUT OF THIS!" Crowley and Notziraphale snapped in unison, their hands leaving the steering wheel entirely.

The bus suddenly veered sharply to the left, with an effect on its contents not unlike taking a salad bowl and tossing it*; including Adam's Encyclopedia, which went sailing over Notziraphale and Crowley's heads and straight onto the gas pedal.

*We would, at this point, like to point out to the Esteemed Reader that none of this would've happened if the Volkswagen had been the kind of vehicle that supported seatbelt-like contraptions...

The Volkswagen gained speed.

"Ouch- stop that! Idiot angel, stop-"

"Oh, I've had ENTIRELY enough out of YOU, Crawly! You can travel along ON THE ROOF, HOW ABOUT THAT?"

"M-mr Crowley…?" Adam tried, tugging at the clothing of whichever limb was closest to him.

"NOT. CRAWLY! YOU STUBBORN, CRUEL, _IMPOSSIBLE-_ "

BRAKE!!! Death suddenly shouted, mixing with Adam screaming and Shadwell shouting, and Notziraphale and Crowley tore away from each other just in time to be thrown against the dash by the shock of a sudden collision with a humanoid figure.

The Encyclopedia dislodged.

The VW rolled to a stop.

 _"E Pasqua,"_ Freddie sang into the quiet after the storm. " _Ed io son qua!"_

Then the cassette clicked back into deadly silence.

"We." Crowley swallowed. "We hit someone."

"No." Notziraphale corrected hoarsely, and more than a bit guiltily. " _Someone_ stood in the middle of the road and _was_ hit."

Crowley nodded sagely. "Important distinction, that usage of the passive voice, innit?"

"Shut up, demon." Notziraphale grumbled.

Together, they scrambled out of the bus, and Crowley winced at the sight of the figure spreadeagled a good few meters ahead of them.

"Think they're still alive?" Crowley whispered.

"Ought to be." Notziraphale shrugged. "What with Death... being the way he is."

"Hnng. Fair." Crowley tentatively approached the dark mass. "Hello? Alright there?"

"Look." Notziraphale enunciated a bit sharper than normal over the howling of the storm. "Sorry about this, but what were you doing out in the middle of the road anyway? Really, it's your own bloody fault!"

"Be _nicer,_ " Crowley hissed, "we probably gave them a horrible shock!"

"A demon talking about being nice? Well, now I've heard it a-"

They both broke off as the figure pushed itself into a sitting position with a groan.

I'VE LEARNED, Death informed no-one in particular, THAT THIS ACCIDENT BUSINESS REALLY IS MUCH LESS ENJOYABLE THAN IT SEEMS FROM _MY_ USUAL POINT OF VIEW.

* * *

You are no doubt confused, Esteemed Reader, by Death's presence outside the car, and Anathema's notable absence. Which is quite understandable, of course, seeing as it is a dashed confusing business.

Allow us, then, to rewind a few minutes, and return to those last few lines of Mascagni's wonderful aria, right as Anathema met Death's non-eye and resigned herself to an unfortunate demise.

Hear Signore Mercury gear up for his final notes, the soft crackling of an often-played tape, drawing itself out longer and longer and longer.

See the falling of the frozen raindrops slow, slow, slow to a crawl.

Feel the rock-rock-rocking of the out-of-control bus steady beneath you.

Death was there, and then, suddenly, he was not.

(Except, he still was, in a way, and would always be.)

* * *

Anathema wondered whether she ought to scream.

Mrs Potts always insisted raising your voice was not suitable conduct for a Good Christian Girl…

 _But screw the old bat,_ Anathema thought with the thrill of first (and last) rebellion coursing through her veins. _I'm about to die. I get to scream._

She opened her mouth, about to make as much noise as she bloody well liked.

Death was not there…

(Except, he had been, in a way, and always would be.)

...and then, suddenly, he was.

Anathema felt bony hands hastily wrap something soft and warm around her head, and then, she was unceremoniously shoved towards the ditch.

It was a long way down as time sped back up again.

* * *

I'M SURE SHE'S FINE. Death busied himself with sorting his smaller bones out. THE SHROUD SHOULD'VE PROTECTED HER HEAD FROM THE WORST. CAN YOU SEE MY STAPES ANYWHERE?

* * *

Anathema landed with a muffled "oof!", and was a little disappointed with herself. That would've been a terrific opportunity for a scream.*

*She considered screaming now, but lying safely and all bundled up as she was, it seemed a bit silly.

No, no, the opportunity had passed. Dash it all.

Anathema sat up slowly, tugging the knitted… something… away from her face. It was quite lovely, even though the knitter had evidently dropped a stitch or two somewhere in between and hadn't taken it off the needles properly.

 _Mrs Potts would have a fit, seeing shoddy work like this,_ Anathema realised, and then had a very Un-Christian thought about where Mrs Potts could stuff her knitting needles.*

*Evidently, near-death-experiences were no good for her. She would have to pray a lot of Hail Mary's once back home, and hope these wild and exciting thoughts went away.

(She should've known: a few heady seconds contemplating genitals, and now she was halfway to Hell already - and, worse, she was starting to feel like she might enjoy it down there.)

"Ow," said the ground beneath her.

Anathema blinked down.

Gathered the trailing bits of The Knitted Thing closer to herself.

She appeared to be sitting on something.

And that something was a young man staring up at her as if she was a good deal more impressive than Mrs Potts insisted she was.

"Hello." Anathema said, because it was only polite to say hello when you were using someone as a pillow.

And, after grasping for something else to say, "would you like to talk about God?"

The man blinked. "I'm an atheist."

"Oh!" Anathema said, delighted. She'd never met an atheist before, at least not for longer than the two seconds it took for Mrs Potts to drag her away.*

*And, like all things Mrs Potts considered strictly off-limits, some deep, hidden part of Anathema had always wanted to try them out.

"You're a wicked servant of the Devil, then?"

"No, I just don't believe in God." The young man pushed himself up, and Anathema noted that he was at least as handsome as the man on the faded movie poster that she could glimpse if she leaned far out her window and craned her neck.

(Maybe even a bit more so.)

"Though…" He was looking very directly at her, not like the people on the street, who tried so hard to avoid catching her eye. Anathema had some more naughty, Un-Christian ideas. "...I feel like I could start believing in _you_."

"Oh. Oh, um." Anathema was quite taken aback by that. She didn't feel like the Jesus-Christ angle, the humanity-is-sinful angle, or the don't-you-want-to-go-to-Heaven? angle would work on this. "I don't think I'm at all qualified for that."

The man arched one eyebrow elegantly.*

* _Nobody_ could arch their eyebrows to quite this effect in real life, they usually only seemed like they were experiencing a stroke. Anathema's suspicion that the man was a movie star intensified.

"No, really, I, I just… A-Anathema Device!" Anathema stammered, extending her hand, pulling it back again immediately, hesitating, and finally setting on an awkward little wave. "I'm actually, um, called And-All-The-Mercies-Above, but, well, that's a bit ungainly, isn't it?"

She laughed a little awkwardly, which was how she did most things, and pushed her glasses up her nose.

"And you?"

"Pulsifer." He smiled the smile of a man who has gorgeous dimples and knows it. "Newt Pulsifer. Full name Newton, like the scientist."*

*Newt's full name was actually Eye-of-Newt Pulsifer, like his mother's favourite potion ingredient, but you will agree this was not the type of thing one divulged on first acquaintance.

They stared at each other.

Newt seemed to be wearing rain gear over the kind of black, extravagantly witch-y outfit Anathema vaguely registered ought to ring some alarm bells in her head; the overall effect being rather like that of Paddington Bear going through a goth-phase and developing a liking for the occult. The outfit was rounded off by a genuine witch's hat from the 17th century, only with minor burn marks around the edges.

It ought not be, but it _was_ terribly, terribly attractive.

So much so that Anathema was briefly self-conscious about her own shabby coats, the thick-rimmed glasses, and The Knitted Thing.*

*She needn't have been. To Newt, she was a nerdy goddess garbed in layers of perfection and knitwear, and most definitely the most beautiful creature he had ever had the pleasure to be knocked into the mud by.

Love on first sight was a mad little thing…

"W-why were you d-down in a ditch anyway?" Anathema stammered out after her thoughts had turned so Very Not Christian that she could feel the little cross on the chain around her neck try to turn itself upside-down.

"Ah. Well." Newt scratched his neck bashfully, spreading mud in his hair. Anathema thought even that made him look rather dashing.

"That… is a long story…"

* * *

The Esteemed Reader may well remember the tale of Witchfinder Captainess Nutter, and how she exploded and took an entire village full of witches with her.

We have, however, neglected to mention the name of her nemesis, leader of the Last True Coven In England, and everything witchiness stood for.

The man's name was Thou-Shallt-Commit-Lots-And-Lots-Of-Adultery Pulsifer, and on the morning of Nutter's arrival, he'd sat in the town square with his coven gathered around him.*

*It is a sad truth that, just like women will not rise as high in the ranks of the Witchfinders, men with unconventional ideas will not be distrusted and ultimately ratted out by their fellow villagers.

Which was why Adultery had a coven where Agnes, the original Agnes, had had none, and the Agnes of _this_ world would never make General.

"Thou art earley, Mistress Nutter!" Adultery is said to have exclaimed with grim mirth. "I hath notte expected to profecute ye 'til ten minutes hence!"

"I shall notte be profecuted!" Agnes allegedly snapped, drawing herself up to full height; and some sources added that her Witchfinder Regulation skirts clinked oddly. "But thou invokest God's Wrath, and He sendeth me to bryng it unto ye!"

It is not reported how Adultery responded, since all still in hearing distance at this point were taken out by the blast immediately; but those who knew him well said he would've laughed.*

*As omniscient narrators, we may tell you that he did, indeed, laugh.

But so did Agnes.

And the moment the match was struck, the laughter died in the Last True Coven Leader's throat, only moments before _he_ did.

His last word, if the Esteemed Reader would like to know, was a much ruder, witchier equivalent of "bugger".

To cut a familiar story short, when the people of the neighbouring village came to gather what had happened from the wounded-and-quickly-dying, they found nothing left of Adultery Pulsifer beside his hat caught high in an elm tree, and, in his cottage, a book.

And what a peculiar book it was, too…

The cover read "Rude Ande Pedantyk Prophecies bey Adulterey Pulsifer, Witch", and besides curt instructions on the first page, it contained thousands of very similar entries, all comprised of a year, date, time, coordinates, and a name, some few embellished with a word or two, or even - what luxury! - a short sentence.

The book and the hat were brought to Adultery's son, who noted that the first entry, dated for the time of his father's death, read "Thou-Shallt-Commit-Lots-And-Lots-Of-Adultery; Village Centere; Nutter, Wrath, Fyre", and had been annotated with a "shalle be gladd to be ridde of her!" in Adultery's - evidently overly optimistic - hand.

And on the book went, always to whoever had their name scrawled after a line of numbers, through the centuries and down the family tree, until it arrived at "Eye-of-Newt Pulsifer; ditch at the syde of Road; maketh thyself presentable, boy."

So, Esteemed Readers, now you know why Newt was in that ditch.

* * *

Anathema (to return to her ongoing plotline) found that it didn't actually matter _why_ he was in said ditch.

At least, not to _her_.

Newt was rather easy on the eyes, all things considered, and, being an atheist and noticeably occult, the most interesting thing to happen to Anathema since Mrs Potts had let her sort through the mail and she'd seen an advertisement for raunchy knickers that had somehow been mixed in with the other letters.

Anathema ducked her head and smiled quietly to herself, the way Mrs Potts disapproved of.*

*Not that that meant much. The list of Things Mrs Potts Disapproved Of was rather long, and extensively varied. For instance, she disapproved of wearing mismatched socks, showing your elbows in public, and of the colour red.

(In fact, it would probably be easier to list things that met with her approval. We'd be done in five minutes, tops…)

She had the feeling that, in between the almost-dying and making the acquaintance of one Mr Newton Pulsifer, her life was about to undergo some substantial changes…

And all of them for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear Lord, two more exams tomorrow... which is also why I haven't answered any of the new comments. Which I will do! Eventually. Hopefully.
> 
> The opera in this is Cavalleria Rusticana, which is absolutely wonderful. Regina Coeli laetare is so lovely it makes me weep.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, as always!!!
> 
> EDIT: if you'd like to have an absolutely STUNNING visual for the cover of the opposite-Prophecies, [here's some amazing papercraft art by glissando365!](https://glissando365.tumblr.com/post/628642268795027456/my-popup-card-entry-for-cliopadra-s-dtiys-this) It comes with a pop-up of Aziraphale and Crowley dancing inside, which is absolutely lovely too - and much less angst-y than what this fic has in store for them >:) - and I hope you enjoy it as much as I have!


	11. Playful As A Pussy Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may be able to tell from the title - YES, this is where Death finally gets his cat!
> 
> Really hope you'll like her!

Mrs Potts' head snapped up from where she had been perusing _Religious Nutcase Today_ * As she suddenly found herself hit with a wave of Disapproval.

*This month's edition featuring articles such as "Talking In Tongues: Unlock Your Inner Babel!", "What The Heathens Have Done Wrong This Time", "Mary, Marmalade And Me: I Saw The Holy Mother On My Breakfast Toast!", and a helpful quiz to aid you in choosing the name of your prophetsona.**

**The result of which left her extremely dissatisfied, seeing as Her Prophetic Self was apparently called "Dehoar of Babylon"...

Alarm bells were ringing in her head as if Mass had come early, and her Christian Instinct* informed her of something she'd dreaded terribly.

*Womanly - or even motherly - instincts were for heathens, in Mrs Potts perfectly rational and utterly distinguished opinion.

Anathema, the fool girl, had gotten herself into trouble - if not Trouble, since Mrs Potts also had the distinct impression that a _man_ (a quick rosary to ward off that terrible thought!) was involved.

Clearly, she had not been ready for her first solo crusade, after all.

There was nothing for it.

Mrs Potts put _RN Today_ away with the kind of huff that knew what you were doing with that electric toothbrush, wicked child, and _disapproved._

She was the girl's guardian, assigned by a Higher Power - well, Anathema's parents, but that was surely High enough - so she better get guarding and return the straying lamb to the flock.

It was only for her own good after all. Poor thing lost in the storm, with a _man_. She ought to be saved from such temptation that surely the Devil Himself had placed before her.*

*Seeing as a genuine demon had been driving, and the Antichrist's own Encyclopedia had jammed the brakes, a case could indeed be made for Hellish involvement placing Anathema atop Newt in that fateful ditch.

However, Love, genuine and sudden and so delightfully human, is not something either Heaven or Hell had any control over, so anything beyond the initial placement was really all them, no devils partaking.

And besides, Mrs Potts _did_ worry.

It might not seem like it to the Esteemed Reader, but we assure them that Mrs Potts, for all that she was harsh and abrasive and prejudiced against just about every minority (and quite a few majorities) in existence, was still very capable of love.

She had loved her parents, years and years ago; had maybe even loved her departed husband, for all that that had clearly been a mistake; and she loved Anathema like her own daughter.*

*Which isn't to say she showed it any. Mrs Potts' way of loving was making sure that person was set to Receive God's Reward, and therefore rather of the "tough love" variety.

So it was love, albeit love liberally covered by Righteous Indignation and The Need To Patronise, that drove Mrs Potts to throw herself into any and all coats she had not adorned Anathema with, gather together one or two bibles, and as many crosses as possible, as well as a flask of Holi-brand Holy Water™ ("holier than tap water! ...probably"), and make for the door to the garage she had not opened in years.

* * *

Let us, at this point, tell the Esteemed Readers about Mr Potts, God rest him.

(His name was, of course, not Potts at all, which had been his wife's maiden name; however, he was not the type of man to have opinions of his own, much less a name - God Forbid! - so we shall spare us the bother and address him thus.)

Mrs Potts had _not_ gone into her marriage loving him, and the same sentiment had rather persevered by the time he had left it again - though she did think, sometimes, that there had been a bit in the middle where…

Well. It was quite irrelevant by now.

She had married him because a Good Christian Girl sooner or later was destined to be a Good Christian Wife, the way she understood it, and Mr Potts, a fellow member of her local parish, had at least given the impression of feeling at home in her company - or at least, at one with the wallpaper.

It had been a pleasant enough thing, really. He went to his job - what it entailed, Mrs Potts had never cared to ask - and came home for dinner, where Mrs Potts would talk about God, and Mr Potts would not talk much about anything at all.

Then they'd go to bed, a respectable distance apart and with their hands above the covers, and that would be that.

She didn't think she'd ever heard him say a longer sentence than "yes, dear", and you really could love a man like that.

That is, until she had discovered his one vice:

He had friends.

There was little wrong with that in itself, loving the guy in thy neighbouring cubicle and such. They weren't even _true_ friends, merely good acquaintances, the kind you invited to the pub for a pint but never to your daughter's wedding.

But there the trouble started.

The _pub_.

Oh no, dear Esteemed Reader, he didn't drink. Mr Potts wasn't the sort who used alcohol to numb his pain, he was numb enough as is.

But his friends did, and Mr Potts among them in that cesspool of sin and drunken revelry, nursing a glass of water - tap, the fizzy stuff was much too exciting for the likes of him - and muttering a word or two in response to slurred questions directed at him.*

*Mrs Potts tolerated this, seeing as many of the Christian Wives in the congregation spoke of similar experiences, and supposed it could be worse. At least he did as he was told in all other aspects, and kept quiet the rest of the time.

The evening most relevant to this story saw the wedding anniversary of the owner of the pub, who had been happily married for nigh on twenty years, and jovially offered free drinks all evening for the unlucky man (or woman) who had the most miserable married life.

The suggestion was well-received, and soon people were falling over themselves to clamber onto the tables and shout horror stories about this and that argument.

In the end, the front-runner was Beryl Ormerod, whose "R-R-Ron" was a right piece of work, followed closely by Terpsic Mims, whose wife Gwladys was wholly unsupportive of his fishing hobby.

The pub owner had been just about to call the verdict and crown the winner, when Mr Potts stood up.

Sombrely, he set his glass down, and, in a hushed, mouse-like sort of voice, began talking.

He said more words that night than in his entire married life, and when he was finished, the atmosphere in the pub was decidedly less drunken or revelrous, and more of a maudlin mood.

Most of the patrons were crying into their beers*, and even Beryl Omerod felt somehow stricken by the revelation that it always could've been worse.

*This would also be the origin of the Bitter Tears Pub Special, a most impressive vintage that was claimed to truly taste like a decade of unhappy marriage; but we digress.

It wasn't even that Mrs Potts was considered a terrible spouse, oh no. Ron had her beat easily.

And yet, the overall effect of Mr Potts' tales was that not one heart in the pub didn't ache for him.

There had been a moment of silence as Mr Potts sat down again, and took a sip of water.

And then, the pub exploded into activity.

Everybody was hurrying to pat him on the shoulder and extend their tearful condolences, offer him a drink or two or twenty, and if there was anything they could do, anything at all…?

Among the patrons that evening had also been a small chapter of the Heaven's Demons, who, at that point, were sobbing like the best of them.

And in that smoky corner of the pub, Small Ted, Coarser, Cowbog and Skizz resolved to try and make Mr Potts happy the best (and only) way they knew: bikes.

With teary resolve, they ambled over, pulled Mr Potts into a very hairy group hug, and pressed the keys to Small Ted's brand-new Harley Davidson into his hands, not taking "thanks, but no thanks" for an answer.*

*They had only recently won a small fortune on a quiz show by correctly answering that Elvis Presley was currently working at a burger place in Des Moines,** so they had funds to spare.

**The man humming _Jailhouse Rock_ behind the grill was actually an impersonator, and the real Elvis had been dead since 1977; however, the general populace, as well as the quiz show host, didn't know that.

This, Mrs Potts had found entirely unacceptable, of course. Her husband, coming home on a beast of a motorcycle adorned with various satanic symbols - no, absolutely unthinkable. Naturally, she demanded it be turned into scrap metal immediately.

And Mr Potts, for the first and last time in all his marriage, if not his life, stood up for himself, and said, "no. I'd like to keep it".

Mrs Potts had been so flabbergasted that she'd actually _let_ him - under the caveat that it stayed in the garage, and he never, ever, _ever_ drove it.

(We may tell the Esteemed Reader that, especially towards the end of his life, he frequently did, sneaking out at night and taking it for a spin with his friends - _true_ friends - from the Heaven's Demons. Mrs Potts never knew... and it was best that way.)

* * *

Mrs Potts threw open the garage door, and there the Harley stood, in all its awful, satanic glory, somehow still as brightly polished as the day she'd locked the door and vowed to throw away the key.

 _Needs must when the Devil drives an innocent girl into the arms of some young hooligan_ , she thought grimly, slapped a few Christian stickers over the worst satanic symbols, and got on ~~the terrible machine~~ her metallic war horse of righteousness.

She revved the engine, once, twice; and then, with a magnificent roar, she shot out into the storm.

* * *

"All right down there?" Crowley peered into the ditch, where two humans seemed to be engaged in some kind of mating ritu-

Huh.

Strange, how history seemed to repeat itself in the strangest new ways.

"Oh!" The bespectacled really-rather-familiar girl in the many, many coats flinched, and scrambled off the haven't-I-seen-you-before? young man. "Fine! Yes, great. Wonderful."

She was beet-red, and so was he, albeit under layers of mud.

Crowley smirked.*

*For all that their initial meeting had not been under the most fortunate circumstances, Crowley harboured a certain fondness for young witches that managed to stop the Apocalypse, and gave him regular updates on what Adam was getting up to afterwards even though he never wrote back.

In his opinion, she was "quite alright", which was rather high praise from the mouth of a demon.

"Anathema. Device. Anathema. I. Um. I need to get to, to Tadfield." Not-quite-Anathema-but-close-enough wrung her hands. "You couldn't, erm, give me a lift? The Lord will reward you for it!"

Crowley grimaced.

"Angel! Your department!" He gestured for Notziraphale. He didn't really have the nerve for dealing with religious do-gooders (that weren't Aziraphale.) "And you?"

"Newt Pulsifer. Same destination as the lady." Newt smiled winningly.* "I don't suppose you might have space for two more?"

*Crowley would usually be a little thrown by the uncanny levels of charm exuding from someone he knew as the poster boy for nerdy awkwardness; however, he'd recently made the acquaintance of a posh, well-spoken MP Shadwell, and little could faze him after that.

Crowley glanced over his shoulder at the VW bus.

Its headlights blinked unhappily, as if to say _must I?_

A scowl confirmed that, yes, it must indeed.

Groaning and with visible reluctance, the VW widened by a few inches, before settling down into a good pout.*

*The Bentley, dear old thing, would've grown another two seats immediately, being much too distinguished for throwing such tantrums; and Crowley suddenly missed it fiercely.

"Yeah, it'll be fine." Crowley announced. And if it did end up being rather snug, well, he somehow felt like the two wouldn't complain about undue proximity.

"Up you get, then." Notziraphale knelt and offered Anathema a hand. "Oh, and, let me…"

He snapped his fingers, and the mud on her clothes found it had better places to be, and obediently slid off her.

Anathema stared at him.

"Yes, yes." Notziraphale rolled his eyes. "Aziraphale, angel of Heaven, be not afraid and all that. Demon's over there-" He pointed to Crowley, currently tugging Newt onto the street and pausing briefly to shoot her finger guns. "And we also have a human, an Antichrist, and an Inevitable Reality Of Existence in this party of ours. Charmed."

"No need to sound so blasé about it." Crowley elbowed Notziraphale while Anathema's eyes were quickly growing to the size of saucers. "If you met your first supernatural entities, wouldn't you want a bit of fanfare to go with it?"

"Not if I was meeting them in the middle of the road in a storm at -3 °C." Notziraphale sniffed, and Crowley had to admit he had a point there. "Into the bus now, if you please. Yes, all three."

Death, having located all his little tidbits, obediently shuffled over to the bus.

"You! You shoved me to safety!" Anathema blurted out as he moved past her, still a bit thrown by having met a genuine angel.*

*To her surprise, he looked a lot more like the kind of men Mrs Potts called "ungodly sodomites" than she would've thought. She ought to be surprised, maybe, but found she really rather wasn't.

OH, DON'T MENTION IT. Death waved her off.

"But you saved my life!"

Death grimaced at those words, as much as his skull allowed, which wasn't really much at all. NO, REALLY. _DON'T_.

Anathema, sensing she had struck a nerve there - if someone with very little in terms of flesh had nerves at all - wisely obeyed, and clambered into the VW bus after him.

"She's beautiful." Newt muttered faintly, to nobody in particular, and followed.

Crowley and Notziraphale exchanged a glance.

 _"Humans."_ They said in unison, and even shared the tiniest little smile.

* * *

"Er. Hello." Anathema awkwardly settled in place next to her very strange saviour with the unfortunate skin condition - namely that he didn't have any - and tried to smile invitingly.

The little boy on the strange man's other side dropped the heavy book he'd been holding.

" _Anathema!?_ " He gasped.

"...yes?" She didn't think she'd ever met the boy before. He didn't much look like the type to hang about church youth centres, and it wasn't like Anathema got around much aside from those.

"Ah." The boy looked almost sad for a moment.* "Hi. I'm Adam."

*Adam adored Anathema, his mentor in all things occult and ecological, with unerring intensity, and he found himself immeasurably disappointed by her not being _quite_ herself.

"Hello, Adam." Anathema considered. "Would _you_ like to talk about God?"

Adam scrunched his nose up. "Nah." He said, with the finality of a little boy who hasn't quite learned to fake polite interest.

"Oh." Anathema sighed.

"We can talk about dinosaurs." Adam allowed magnanimously. "If you'd like."

The only thing Anathema knew about dinosaurs was that they had clearly not made the cut on Noah's Ark.

"I would like. Very much." She answered nonetheless, because he was a charming little boy and Anathema needed something to distract her from Mr Newt pressing himself against her side as he was attempting to get the door to close all the way..

THEY ALL DIED OUT. Death reminisced fondly, discreetly attempting to tug The Knitted Thing away from her. IF YOU WANT THE CLIFFNOTES VERSION.

"Now you've gone an' spoiled the ending!" Adam groused.

BOY, I _AM_ THE ENDING.

"Still spoiled it."

Anathema wondered how it was possible that the stranger could stick out his tongue at Adam, even though he so very obviously didn't have a tongue in the first place.

"Please don't mind them." Said the map, which seemed to have grown the head of a kindly elderly man. "Ms Anathema, I presume? If I may introduce myself, I am-"

 _"MP Shadwell!"_ Newt exclaimed delightedly, abandoning his struggle with the door to lean forward and shoot the map a blinding grin.

"Young Pulsifer!" Shadwell's face lit up. "Why, I _never!_ How goes your research?"

"Just splendid, sir."

"Glad to hear it, lad, glad to hear it."

Leaning over Anathema, Death, Adam and the map (in that order), they shook hands.*

*Newt had first met Shadwell at the Salem Memorial College, where he'd been conducting research into the mystic uses of recent developments on the hi-tech market, and Shadwell had been a guest speaker on political issues from the point of view of the Wiccan community.

Shadwell, who knew young genius when he saw it, had promptly offered him a position as technological advisor, which Newt regretfully had to decline to continue his research; they did, however, regularly exchange letters and ideas.

"Here on, ah, _descendant business?_ " Shadwell raised a meaningful eyebrow.

"In part." Newt evaded. It was true that his instructions had placed him in that ditch, but the next few prophecies, as they were, appeared rather vague, and he hadn't exactly thought about anything other than staying with Ms Anathema Device when signing up for a lift in the sorriest excuse for a vehicle he had ever seen.*

*Here, it showed that _this_ Newton Pulsifer did _not_ own a car of the likes of Dick Turpin, or he would merely rank the Volkswagen a distant second.

"I'm, um, here in a missionary capacity." Anathema muttered awkwardly. "W-would you like to talk about God?"

Sensing that the poor girl was rather out of her depth, and Adam apparently embroiled in a face-pulling contest with Death (that Death was _inexplicably_ winning), Shadwell took pity on her.

"Young lady, I would be _delighted._ " He said.

Anathema blinked.

She'd honestly, in all her years of Being Christian, never gotten this far.

* * *

"I presume you're familiar with those two, as well?" Notziraphale muttered close behind him, breath warm enough to feel as it misted in the cold evening air.

Crowley shivered. "Hnnyeah." He nodded. "Stopped the other Apocalypse."

"...really?" Notziraphale probably hadn't meant to sound _quite_ that dubious about it, but undertones of _those two!? Oh, please tell me you're not serious_ came through loud and clear.

"For humans, they're quite…" Crowley began. "And besides, their opposites…"

Notziraphale's raised eyebrow almost had something playful this time. Not quite _fond,_ Crowley didn't think, but genuinely amused.

"Oh… just get back in the car." He muttered.

"Naturally." Notziraphale did something on his way past him that was almost, very nearly, perhaps a bit like a saunter, and Crowley's mouth was very dry all of a sudden.

He forgot, sometimes, how incredibly attractive Aziraphale's body was to him, especially the way Notziraphale moved it.

And, since centuries of post-fighting shags had conditioned Notziraphale enough to react to the grapple in the car with an undue semi-Pavlovian air of seductiveness…

Crowley shook his head. _Focus, Crowley, focus._

(Though, as he watched Notziraphale clamber back into the passenger's seat, there was, perhaps, no harm in enjoying the view just a little longer.)

They drove on.

* * *

"...so when I wake up, day after my birthday, s'all gone!" Adam made a lot of very expressive gestures that didn't quite fit what he was saying, but had already nearly taken out three eyes and one eyesocket. "My room, an' my parents, an' _Dog!_ S'the worst, Dog not being there, cos he's my Dog an' I love him so much."

Anathema nodded eagerly. She'd always wanted a pet, but Mrs Potts was of the firm conviction that animals were servants of the devil.

Yes. All of them. Even bunny rabbits. _Especially_ bunny rabbits!*

*It just so happened that, if Mrs Potts had ever looked into her genealogy - she never would, that way lies _evolution_ \- she would've found herself a direct descendant of Sir Frederick Fright and his bunny-fearing wife. But that was of course purely coincidental.

Adam beamed. Aside from praising his writing, showing affection for Dog was another surefire way into his heart.

"An' this woman, she calls me Warlock, and tells me to get ready for some stupid important trip to some stupid important thing. There's secret service men everywhere, all havin' guns, which I don't approve of. Pepper says guns are the way the chauvinist regimes oppress people, an' Pepper knows about such things."

Newt and Shadwell both nodded sagely.

THEY'RE VERY PRACTICAL, GUNS. Death said, almost wistfully, busy plucking leaves out of the Knitted Thing. EFFECTIVE.

"I didn't wanna, 'course. I wanted home, and my mom, and my Dog, and my friends. An' usually, when I really, really want somethin', I get it. What with how I'm the Antichrist."

Shadwell ripped his map, Anathema gasped softly, and if Newt hadn't been the perfect opposite of clumsy, with an eternally firm grip on everything he held, he might've dropped the _Rude ande Pedantyk Prophecies_ in his shock.

Clearly, Notziraphale's previous statement about Antichrists in their party hadn't registered properly at all, or at least nobody had made the connection to the sweet little kid in the backseat.

"M-my Lord!" Shadwell recovered first, bowing as deeply as the cramped VW bus allowed, which wasn't much at all.

Adam wrinkled his nose. He didn't really want to be My Lord, never had.*

*When playing with the Them, he usually opted for Bandit instead, or My Lady when Pepper-the-Knight wanted a damsel to rescue and Wensley already had his pointy magician's hat on.

(Brian wasn't considered, since he'd proven notoriously bad at damseling; mainly because he never got the hang of Dramatic Fainting, which was a very - if not the most - important part of it.

He just sort of flopped down, which simply wouldn't do at all.)

Newt stared at him with quiet reverence, somehow managing to look extremely dashing rather than slack-jawed.

Adam's nose wrinkled further. He also didn't want to be looked at like he was the most important thing in the world.* 

*Unless it was Dog doing the looking at, of course. It was alright if it was _Dog._

Brought all sorts of expectations with it. Save the Whales, cure world hunger, bring about the End Times; once it started, it never stopped.

"What have I told you about breaking this _gently_ to people, Warlock?" Notziraphale sing-songed*, and Adam's nose was really more of a giant wrinkle in the middle of his face now.

*Having vented a good deal of tension in that brief scuffle with Crowley, Notziraphale had evidently mellowed substantially, as evidenced by letting them talk at all.

He _really_ didn't want to be called Warlock ever again, no matter how well-meant.

(Crowley and Death both didn't comment, and Adam found he didn't really want to be _ignored,_ either.)

"And what happened then?" Anathema asked curiously.

Anathema, who, by rights, should be getting out her Li'l Exorcist travel kit, and spouting grand words about casting Adam out and back to Hell. Anathema, opposite-Anathema, who Adam would've expected the worst reaction from.

Adam found he might adore her still, oppodite or not.

"Nuffin'." He shrugged. "S'not workin' anymore. Maybe it will when I'm back home? Or have Dog back. I really want Dog back. An' then I can fix it all!"

HERE'S TO HOPING. Death muttered absently, and opened the brownie tin.

Anathema, who wasn't allowed chocolate - because it was Sinful, naturally - reached for one.

I WOULD ADVISE AGAINST THAT. Death said gently, removing Anathema's hand from the brownie tin. THEY'RE VERY SPECIAL BROWNIES, YOU SEE.

"Like hosts?" Anathema asked innocently. "That kind of special?"

ER. Death helplessly scratched his skull. YES, WHY NOT. WHICH IS WHY THEY'RE OFF-LIMITS FOR ALL OF YOU HUMANS.

Adam grumbled something very impolite, or maybe that was merely his stomach. It had been quite a while since scones at the bookshop.

"Oh. Okay." Anathema shrugged, and proceeded to produce a prettily-wrapped stack of sandwiches from the pocket of one of her many coats.*

*Just like you could never have too many coats when on a Holy Mission, food supplies should also always be plentiful. You couldn't always bank on manna in the wilderness, could you?

Adam made the type of plaintive little sound Dog usually let out when begging for scraps at the dinner table. Shadwell looked like he was trying extremely hard to maintain his dignity. Newt - who had been sitting in that ditch for an _awfully_ long time - visibly salivated.

"Would any of you like one?" Anathema asked, and instantly endeared herself to everyone in the bus, even Notziraphale and Crowley, who had dreaded the eventual request to stop at a fast-food place by the roadside.*

*Even In the most terrible of storms, fast-food stops never _ever_ close. The next ice age might be coming, mammoths roaming the lands and glaciers creeping steadily inland, and in Des Moines a burger joint will still have a candle lit in the window, and an old man humming _Blue Suede Shoes_ as he's flipping patties.

(Crowley's heart broke a little when Notziraphale refused the proffered egg-and-cucumber sandwich, but after the past few days, it amounted to barely more than yet another hairline fissure adding to the many already criss-crossing the unfortunate organ.)

They drove on.

* * *

I'LL BE RIGHT BACK. Death suddenly said, as the VW grumpily rumbled along the country roads; and vanished for only a second, before reappearing again.

" _No_ ." Crowley said immediately, because _someone_ had to put their foot down, and despite Notziraphale proving himself surprisingly resolute, he couldn't bank on that someone being anyone other than him. "Absolutely not. Put it back. NOW."

A TRUCK WAS GOING TO HIT HER. Death defended himself, clutching his knitted shroud and whatever was bundled within it to his ribcage. AND BESIDES, IT REALLY IS VERY COLD OUT. EVEN I AM CHILLED TO MY BONES!

He grinned. Nobody else did.*

*Death, to nobody's surprise, had never been particularly funny. He could spout some delightfully dark gallows humour, but nothing in the vein of side-splitting bonmottes or, Heaven Forbid, puns. It just wasn't in his nature.

"I think, what my esteemed celestial colleague means to say, is that the bus is full." Notziraphale said sweetly, leaning slightly over the back of his seat. "And we can't spare any more space."

"Sod space!" Crowley scoffed. "No pets in the Bent- the Volkswagen, and that's my final word. It'll pee on the seats."

SHE WON'T. WILL YOU? Death extended one bony finger to scratch at some exposed fur between the folds of the shroud. NO YOU WON'T, NO YOU WON'T!

"Can we keep her, Mr C-Crowley?" Anathema chimed in. "Please?"

"Please please please?" Adam added, while Newt nodded vigorously.

Even Shadwell looked a little bit pleading, in a reserved fashion.

"And?" Notziraphale did what any parent does when their child simply MUST have that absolutely unacceptable pet, and they are unwilling to be The Mean One in the scenario: smile brightly and a bit wickedly, and simply pass on the question. " _May_ they keep it, Crowley _dear?"_

Crowley glared at him, and made a very rude gesture with parts of his demonic True Shape that translated roughly to "your wings are flea-ridden, and your transcendent essence reeks of goat".*

*Since Notziraphale was still more like Aziraphale than what would've been good for Crowley's aching heart, his wings were two fluffy, unkempt clouds of perfection, and his essence smelled of old leather, printing ink and hot tea, as well as any smell Crowley loved in the world.

And Notziraphale probably knew that, the smug bastard, judging from how his smirk was steadily intensifying.

Crowley sighed, twisted in his seat, and glared pointedly at the rescue kitten currently pawing idly at Death's hood.

"So now it's not just humans you need to be rescuing, is it?"

Death very pointedly looked elsewhere. I ALREADY GIVE CATS NINE LIVES, THIS ISN'T AS NEW A DEVELOPMENT AS YOU MIGHT THINK.

Crowley sighed harder.

The cat meowed.

Well. It wasn't like this was the Bentley, was it.*

*If it _had_ been, Crowley would've never allowed eating, let alone the methodical spreading of brownie crumbs Death seemed to indulge in, and probably would've hesitated a good long while before allowing a >shudder< _child_ to enter the vehicle.

"Yes. Fine. Whatever." Crowley massaged his temples. "Death adopts cats now. Why not. This is normal. This is perfectly fine!"

I THINK I'LL CALL HER MORTIS. Death said, with all the trained obliviousness of an age-old being who has gotten very, very good at ignoring the squawking of little creatures if said squawking translates to something they don't want to hear.

Everybody else cheered, and for the next hour or so, MORTIS was the focus of all attention. Crowley would've muttered a derisive " _humans"_ again, if Notziraphale hadn't sneaked her bits of miracled-up meat, and Death wasn't gearing up to spoil the mangy thing rotten.

* * *

Upon further reflection, the entire affair was less like a road trip, no matter how awful, and more like the absolutely _worst_ Dungeons and Dragons campaign* you could possibly imagine.

*Crowley had never played, simply because it hadn't really seemed like the kind of thing the human he was so desperately attempting to emulate would be into. He was going to be _cool_ \- he was, _shut up_ \- and D&D wasn't exactly universally considered the epitome of coolness.

 _Aziraphale,_ on the other hand, regularly met on the third weekend of the lunar month with a handful of supernatural entities that had an ongoing campaign since the early 90s, and greatly enjoyed himself at these meets.

(He had played a lawful-good Paladin initially, but that had felt too much like work; so he'd switched over to a chaotic-neutral rogue which had rather improved the experience.)

So, naturally, Crowley accompanied him occasionally. Just to make sure the vampire (playing a lawful-good Cleric named Han Velsing; there was probably A Story behind it, but so far nobody had dared to touch _that_ with a ten-foot pole) didn't hit on his angel. Of course. And sometimes he rolled the dice so Aziraphale didn't have to. Helped out with character motivation and the funny voices, that sort of thing.

(...not that he wanted to join the next campaign, or anything. Of course.)

Between being utterly mismatched comrades-in-arms, getting constantly distracted by side quests, picking up NPCs left and right, as well as the threat of a full-party kill always hanging over their heads, and Crowley having the constant feeling he needed to roll a saving throw after conversations with Notziraphale, it was an apter metaphor than he would've liked.

He only prayed that their Great Dungeon Master In The Sky had Her boss encounters scaled to their pitifully low levels, and the puzzles were within the capabilities of their collective intellect.

(And maybe for some good loot. That too. Crowley could use a new ridiculously-expensive watch.)

* * *

And on, and on, and on they drove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh damn, I missed an opportunity by not calling the kitten Killer Queen, didn't I? (Shout-out to all the JoJo fans in here! ;))
> 
> My official final posting date is on the 6th and... I seriously doubt I'll finish this fic until then. Will have to speak with the mods about how to proceed, currently tending towards splitting the rest off into a second part of a series...?  
> I'm very sorry I'll not make the deadline... but this fic WILL be finished in a timely manner, rest assured!!!
> 
> Also, my eternal love and gratitude for all the wonderful comments, they really do keep me writing every day!  
> \^-^/ <3


	12. Stormy Weather Comes Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, new chapter!
> 
> Enjoy!  
> <3

Another thing about road trips the Esteemed Reader may potentially be familiar with, especially those which drag on through the night: the stasis.

At some point, time, as a concept, stops applying to their vehicle; space starts giving them a wide berth; and reality generally does the equivalent of sealing them up into a Tupperware box, to be stuffed all the way into the back of the refrigerator and never touched again.

It was something that simply  _ happened  _ after a few hours of driving through a) the night, b) a now-snow storm, c) the countryside, or, d) all of the above, and one worse than the other.

The outside was a smear of grey ahead of them, only barely illuminated by the Volkswagen's failing headlights, with another layer of whiteness smudging all over it, threatening to take over the windshield, until the wipers cleared it away and the world was dark grey again - only marginally more sludgy-white than before. But perhaps that was only a trick the headlights played on Crowley's exhausted eyes.

All the signposts showed the same unintelligible, wordless gibberish; and all other roads led straight into the same nothingness as the one that was ahead of them, only turning into road for brief seconds before dissolving again behind them.

It was very nearly a profound feeling, to travel through the nothing, going nowhere, reaching nobody, and to be so deeply alone in doing it.

It is only that, upon reaching this peculiar, half-dream half-nightmare state, most travellers and road-trippers are already much too drained to either appreciate or fear it. Most hardly notice, simply driving on and on and on until they reach a town, the storm calms, the sun rises, and the strangeness has passed like a fading thought.

Crowley, who had gotten into the habit of being rather aware of the reality of his surroundings recently, noticed, of course.

He was, however, passing familiar with the sensation of existential dread and lonely aimlessness, so it hardly fazed him much. Nothing against one year ago, trying to force a similar effect through bottles upon bottles of alcohol, until a world in which Aziraphale didn't exist faded away. Child's play.

Existence wanted to play scare tactics? Well, Crowley wasn't so easily intimidated.

"Nice try." He muttered to the nothingness lapping just at the edges of his perception, and then twisted in his seat* to remind himself he was  _ not, _ in fact, alone in a never-ending loop of storm and night and country road.

*The Volkswagen, for all that it was a contrary old thing, seemed to be warming up to him, since it obediently kept to the road even with Crowley's attention off it; or at least it knew what was good for it and had decided not to bite the hand that drove it.

Due to the advanced hour - and the stress of the previous day - the assorted humans and quasi-humans in the backseat all appeared to be fast asleep.

MP Shadwell was resting his head against the window in the sort of manner that seemed terribly embarrassed to do something as vulgar as sleeping in the presence of others, hands folded carefully over the even-more-carefully-folded map, and Adam had burrowed into Anathema's side, who, in turn, was draped over Newt in a manner that would send Mrs Potts into a Christian Rage.

Even Death appeared to be in the closest state he could get to dozing off, slumped in his seat and cradling the little bundle that was MORTIS against his breastbone as if she was the most precious thing in all of existence.*

*Which, in fact, she  _ was. _ Kittens inspired that sort of sentiment generally, and if the One Universal Truth Of Existence valued a tiny ball of fur above all else, then it had to be an extremely precious ball of fur indeed.

They were all shivering - that is, except MORTIS, who was swaddled in The Knitted Thing so tightly she couldn't have been cold even if she'd tried - and something soft and squishy in Crowley's chest gave a painful little twinge.

It wasn't like he  _ cared. _ Not about individual humans, anyway. It was hard enough caring about the silly little beings as a collective, he couldn't be going around worrying about individuals, that only led to heartbreak when they inevitably moved on from the strange, unaging man who wouldn't show them their eyes.

Nonetheless, Crowley snapped his fingers, and blankets settled around them, corners tugging themselves around their shivering shapes, providing what little warmth there was to have.*

*The AC seemed to stubbornly resist any increasingly-forceful suggestion to repair itself, and any warmth-miracles Crowley could spare he had to use on himself, or he was going to get all sluggish and drop off into hibernation at the wheel. Bloody cold-bloodedness, pun not intended.**

**Oh, alright, alright, pun perhaps a  _ bit _ intended. Honestly, dear Reader, we didn't expect the bloody Spanish Inquisition!***

***Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, and least of all Crowley, who had once encountered the Cardinals Ximénez, Biggles and Fang in a double-decker bus he was going to meet with Aziraphale on, and squeaked most embarrassingly at the sight.

Turning back to the ever-same stretch of snow-covered road, Crowley didn't notice Notziraphale watching this act of kindness from beneath half-lowered lids, for once curious rather than suspicious; and maybe, at the very edges, grudgingly approving.

(This was mostly due to how he was generally making it a point to refrain from watching Notziraphale as he slept, features far too soft and familiar for comfort.)

Something, at least, appeared to be changing: the snowstorm was getting worse and worse, flurries of snowflakes that were really halfway to snowballs splattering all over the Volkswagen, and the street ahead.

Crowley shivered a little himself, and reached to engage the gelbpunkt again.

Best of Opera (featuring the incomparable Signore Mercury) began warbling from the speakers - softly, as not to disturb the humans' sleep, and fittingly starting withTchaikovsky's  _ Waltz of the Snowflakes.* _

*Which, in all technicality, was ballet, not opera; but sometimes the universe valued its sense of humour above accuracy.

Crowley let out a soft sound of abject misery, and drove on.

* * *

"You know," Notziraphale said suddenly, followed instantly by "oh,  _ goodness sake" _ and throwing out a hand to stop Crowley from jerking the steering wheel around in shock.*

*One accident was very much enough for the night, thankyouverymuch.

"You really  _ are _ just a bundle of nerves, aren't you?"

"Hrngk." Crowley said, currently occupied with swallowing his heart back down into his chest. "Nnnwhat?"

"I was only going to say…" Notziraphale's hand was still clutching the wheel, with Crowley's caught in between. He needed a manicure, Crowley noted absently; he also needed to keep that hand there, warm and firm and absolutely tantalising.*

*In, perhaps, the traditional sense, of Tantalus eternally reaching for the sweet grapes he could never ever have.

"Considering you come from a world entirely opposite ours… you're not  _ entirely _ unlike Crawly."

"Oh, thanks very much!" Crowley grimaced. Knowing what Notziraphale thought of the other demon (the other  _ him), _ that was most definitely  _ not _ a compliment.

"You misunderstand." Notziraphale pulled his hand away, and some instinct deep in Crowley's heart screamed for him to follow it, clutch those fingers to his chest and never let them go. "You're not the same at all, it's quite obvious by now. Entirely different behaviour. Which only makes it more peculiar… tell me, demon, would you mistake any of these others - excluding Death and W- and  _ Adam, _ of course - for the version of them from  _ your _ world? In fact, would you encounter any of them in the environments you'd expect them?"

Crowley peered over his shoulder. At MP Shadwell, who surely occupied a lovely flat in the better parts of town, rather than a dirty little hovel above a newsagent's. Anathema, who he could hardly imagine anywhere but in a pew, much less out and about doing witchy things in the dark. Newt, who would never be fired from some inconsequential accounting job and sign up with the Witchfinders.

"...your point?" Crowley asked uncertainly. He had a feeling it wouldn't be "dolphins".

"Well.  _ I  _ still sell books. Or, at least, still have a bookshop. You've still Fallen. We've both still been assigned to earth. You still wear those ghastly sunglasses, and…"

A brief pause.

"Those… sounds. The consonant-heavy ones.  _ Crawly _ always…" Notziraphale trailed off, and there it was again. That  _ lost _ expression.

"I know what you mean." Crowley admitted, hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Sometimes you say...  _ things, _ and I very nearly…"

"Indeed." Notziraphale shot him a wry expression that might've hung out with smiles once in its youth. "Makes you wonder, does it not? How the opposite-ness carries over. What differs, and what might still be the same. What the universal constants are."

Crowley pondered that for a while. Notziraphale's tone was flippant on the surface, but there was… something underneath it. Distantly related to that lostness, but an entirely different flavour.

"I… have a theory." Crowley began slowly.

"Yes?" Notziraphale leaned slightly towards him. Crowley wished he wouldn't, it was damn hard to concentrate on what he was going to say if his face was so close, and his eyes so  _ blue. _

_ (L'amour est enfant de Bohême, _ Signore Freddie was singing, heart-meltingly beautiful.*  _ Il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi. _

*If the Esteemed Reader points out that this is a mezzo-soprano's part, we would like to refer them to Mr Mercury's incredible vocal range, and hear no more of it.)

"Well. We're an angel and a demon. We've been around so much longer than…" Crowley waved a vague hand at the backseat, taking care to gesture around Death. "Their short little lives are like... weathervanes. One strong gust of wind, and  _ whoosh!" _

"Whoosh." Notziraphale raised one eyebrow, once more taking hold of the wheel while Crowley's hands were off gesturing in a vaguely whoosh-like manner.

"Whoosh." Crowley confirmed. "Entirely new direction. Us? It all balances itself out in the long run. Any way the wind blows, it doesn't really matter, to quote..."

Crowley was once more painfully reminded of the Queenlessness of this universe.

"Things end up where they belong, s'all I'm saying." He finished awkwardly. "It's..."

INEVITABLE? Death provided from the back seat.

_ INEFFABLE  _ echoed through the car, and Crowley winced. "...in a fashion."

"I... see." It clearly hadn't been what Notziraphale had wanted to hear. "It's all really meant to be, then. In broad strokes."

"Made In Heaven."* Crowley agreed with a weak grin, and wished that the only two other people currently capable of understanding this joke weren't currently sleeping and not listening respectively.

*For obvious reasons, Crowley had always had a somewhat complicated relationship with the  _ Made In Heaven _ album; and yet, he'd give his left kidney - or, well,  _ somebody's _ left kidney, at least - just to hear it again.

Notziraphale scoffed softly. "You don't believe all that rot  _ over there, _ do you?" He muttered under his breath.  _ "The Ineffable Plan, _ absolute bollocks. Everybody knows that. It's propaganda, for  _ them." _

He jerked his head towards the backseat, somehow managing to explicitly exclude Death while doing so.

"As for us… what's the point, following Her orders in eternal absentia? At this point, I hardly believe God even exis-"

_ "Don't!" _ Crowley hissed, nearly feeling the blood drain from his face.

"Oh please." Notziraphale rolled his eyes. "I've been shagging a demon for centuries and directly sabotaged Her Great Plan, if I was going to Fall, it would've happened already. Besides, the Almighty doesn't  _ care. _ She hasn't bothered Herself with Heavenly matters for ages, Earth affairs for even longer. Nietzsche can claim God Is Alive all he wishes, it'll never be any less wrong."

I CANNOT SAY IF SHE CARES. Death muttered from behind them. BUT YOU SHOULD KNOW I'VE NOT LAID A FINGER ON HER.

A heavy, heavy pause.

...YET.

A moment of tense silence.

(Somewhere, far, far away, a wave of Blasphemy nearly threw Mrs Potts off her Steed of Righteousness; but she persevered.)

Crowley felt nearly sick to his stomach. Never mind the implication that God was  _ mortal, _ in a certain sense of the word; hearing Aziraphale's voice speak like this, so devoid of the hope, the belief, the  _ faith _ his angel had always carried with him…

It felt wrong.

WELL, IF YOU WANT MY TWO CHARON'S OBOLS ON THE MATTER… Death leaned slightly forward, resting the one bony arm he wasn't still holding MORTIS with against the front seats. I BELIEVE THAT THE DIFFERENCES IN THIS WORLD ARE NOT DEFINED BY ACTIONS OR CIRCUMSTANCE. THE WORLD AND ITS OCCUPANTS ARE STILL THE SAME - IT IS THEIR HEARTS, THEIR THOUGHTS, THEIR  _ FEELINGS _ THAT ARE THE EXACT OPPOSITE.

Notziraphale and Crowley exchanged a dubious look.*

*Death talking about  _ feelings, _ of all things, was even more jarring than seeing him coddle rescue cats. It… wasn't exactly his expertise, was it?

Almost as ridiculous as Crowley extolling the virtues of baggy pants, or Notziraphale giving someone tips for dealing with one's aggressions in a healthy manner.

"...elaborate." Notziraphale finally said.

EVENTS UNFOLD THE SAME, ONLY ATTITUDES ARE DIRECTLY REVERSED. IN SOME CASES, THIS IMPACTS THE LIVES OF INDIVIDUALS - SHADWELL HERE BECOMING A WITCH RATHER THAN FINDING THEM, FOR INSTANCE. NOTE HIS PHYSICAL APPEARANCE: THE EXACT SAME, ONLY BETTER GROOMED. THE DIFFERENCE LIES IN HIS OWN INCLINATION TO STUDY MAGIC, TO ENTER INTO GOVERNMENT SERVICE, TO BE CLEANLY. THAT IS WHY…

Death paused, MORTIS shifting on his arm, waiting until she'd settled again.

THAT IS WHY MY FELLOW HORSEPEOPLE ARE SO STRONGLY AFFECTED. THEY ARE BORN FROM THE WRATH, THE GREED, THE WASTEFULNESS IN PEOPLE'S HEARTS. THEY ARE PURE THOUGHT, PURE IMPULSE, PURE FEELING. SO EVEN THEIR POWERS WERE REVERSED. ME? I AM STILL DEATH. I AM ETERNAL AND NEVER-CHANGING.

BUT WHERE I NEVER CARED, I… CARE NOW.

Another pause. A glance down at the kitten that carried all the helpless adoration in the world.

WAR AND FAMINE AND POLLUTION STILL EXIST IN THIS WORLD. THAT HAS NOT CHANGED. BUT THEIR PERSONIFICATIONS FIGHT THEM NOW. IT'S THE EMOTIONS. HATRED BECOMES LOVE, INDIFFERENCE BECOMES CARING, THE SCEPTICS BELIEVE AND THE BELIEVERS QUESTION. WRATH IS CALM, GREED GENEROSITY, AND SO ON.  _ THAT _ IS WHAT CHANGED.

Death leaned back.

AT LEAST THAT'S WHAT I THINK. He shrugged his bony shoulders, returning to methodically petting MORTIS. WHO KNOWS? IT MIGHT NOT WORK THIS WAY AT ALL.

"...right." Crowley muttered uncertainly. That was… certainly a theory. Didn't quite explain Adam, but since Adam was - had been - the most powerful entity in existence barring God Herself and Death, it was quite possible his powers had complicated things somewhat.

The rest made perfect sense, though. Especially that love-and-hatred business. Explained Notziraphale and Crawly quite neatly.

"Do you think-" Crowley turned to Notziraphale.

Paused.

"...alright there?" He asked tentatively.

If anything, this seemed to be even less what Notziraphale wanted to hear, jaw set so forcefully Crowley's teeth ached just from looking at it, that lost expression back in full force.

"Fine." Notziraphale replied tightly. "Perfectly fine."

He didn't look it. He looked like Crowley felt when he firmly told himself that he wasn't going to scream and sob and rage and tremble like a little child over something he couldn't change anyway.

But he also looked like he was going to bite off something vital and very tender if Crowley didn't drop the matter  _ right this instant, _ so Crowley turned back to the street and let it be.

_ (Si tu ne m'aime pas, je t'aime. _ The gelbpunkt continued to play, Mercury's Carmen melancholy in her playfulness. _ Si je t'aime, prend garde à toi!) _

They - you guessed it, Dear Reader - drove on.

* * *

_ Alright, Readers, which one of you was it? _

_ Who thought "well, this is going pretty alright, all things considered"? Who said to themselves, "they might manage this yet"? Or even, who read about their being cold and exhausted and more than a little miserable in the current circumstances, and muttered "at least it can hardly get any worse"? _

_ Those are  _ dangerous _ thoughts, dear Readers! Never to be thought or - Heaven beware us - voiced, and especially not when omnipotent beings with a very strange sense of humour - dinosaur fossils, is all I'm saying - could be listening in! _

_ Well, no matter. It's too late now, anyway… _

* * *

The motor of the VW bus stalled.

This was nothing new, of course. Frankly, it was more astonishing to have it run at all, rather than observing the occasional hiccup, and that wasn't even considering the multiple dozen inches of snow it was currently pushing its way through.

And yet, this time it stalled, groaned, coughed… and categorically failed to pick itself up again, dramatically croaking its last and then falling silent entirely.

With nothing propelling it forward, the snow won out, stopping the VW almost instantly in its tracks, with everyone within suddenly jerking forward - thanks, Newton's First Law of Motion.

MORTIS nearly slid out of Death's arms with a startled mew if he hadn't lurched forwards with entirely supernatural speed to catch her, while the Adamnathemewt cuddle pile relocated to the - frankly disgusting - leg room in a tangle of limbs and blankets and with plenty of yelping.

Shadwell, with the sort of ramrod-straight posture that wouldn't so much as give a slouch the time of day, only swayed very slightly, and Notziraphale gasped, shoving his hands out in front of him to steady himself.

Crowley, on the other hand...

>bonk!< was the sound he made, and then "ow", rubbing his forehead.

"Whasappening?" Adam asked uncertainly, him and Anathema clinging to Newt just a little bit, since even now he exuded mildly-surprised confidence.

HAVE WE ARRIVED AT OUR DESTINATION? Death asked, peering out the window for a few seconds before redirecting his attention onto more important matters. HUSH, MORTIS, NO CLAWS NOW, THERE'S A LOVE.

"Nah. Engine gave out." Crowley sighed, glaring balefully at the dashboard, which gave the faint impression of an exhausted glare back. "It'll work again in a tick,  _ if it knows what's good for it." _

The Volkswagen grumpily tried to pull itself together… but not very hard, and rather unsuccessfully.

"Allow me…" Newt said gallantly, helping Anathema up first, even though his elbow was sticking to a strangely discoloured spot and you could practically  _ see _ the mould beginning to eat through his trousers.

"Doesn't seem like we'll be getting anywhere tonight, does it?" Notziraphale muttered under his breath, voice dripping with the sort of sarcasm Aziraphale considered unseemly and only very rarely indulged in. "Oh, will you look at that, the weather is getting even worse!"

"Beg pardon, gents," Shadwell politely directed a question to the front of the car, "only… might I inquire whether we are at least  _ close _ to Tadfield by now?"

A moment of silence.

"Ngk." Crowley said.

"Demon." Notziraphale said, in the kind of voice that wasn't currently a threat, but  _ was going to be, very soon. _ "Tell me you know where we've been going these past few hours. Tell me we aren't lost. Go on."

"I know where we are!" Crowley quickly defended himself. "We are… we are… we… are..."

"Lost?" Anathema suggested, very gently.*

*Mrs Potts insisted none were lost under God's Guiding Light, but Anathema had wandered often enough in the Valley of Little Streets That All Look The Same to know God was no match for a decent sat nav.

"...lost." Crowley admitted with a sigh. "Yeah."

Notziraphale punched him in the upper arm with the sort of glare that was currently arranging its alibi.

"Oi, stoppit!" Crowley whined.

It wasn't his fault, exactly, was it? Getting lost was something that happened to  _ other _ people, after all.*

*Between the universe's tendency to bend over backwards to accommodate celestials, and the trusty old Bentley gently turning the steering wheel the right direction when Crowley accidentally went the other left, Crowley had never once gotten lost while driving before.

(Except, perhaps, the one time with the DUI and the duck pond, which had generally been a very inadvisable enterprise, and led to Crowley always walking home if he was in a state of inebriation.)

Anathema sighed softly, uncertainly twisting her hands in her lap.

Newt pulled the kind of noble - and impossibly handsome - movie star face that made clear he had hoped for better, but had forgiven you as part of your B-plot redemption arc.

Shadwell shot Crowley a look that wasn't exactly  _ accusing, _ but politely pointing out to the Speaker of the House that the Esteemed Honourable Mr Crowley had wilfully chosen to neglect both this member's advice and the map evidence that had been provided; and was therefore, pardon the expression, bound to lie in the bedstead he had previously readied for himself.

In short, they were all more or less disappointed.

(Except, of course, for Death, who was fully occupied letting MORTIS chew on the tips of his fingerbones until she calmed.)

"Let's not be pointin' fingers." Adam piped up, very reasonably. "S'no good, shiftin' blame, coz if you fight over who dunnit, you never fix it, way I see it."

Crowley nodded forcefully. What a wonderful kid, saying such right and true things, bravo!

"It's very clear tha' it's Mr Crowley's fault." Adam continued.

Crowley vehemently shook his head. What a lying scoundrel boy, boo hiss.

"So now, we figure out where we are, an' get home."

For a minute, everybody was peering out into the storm.

"We could maybe find a signpost further down the street?" Newt suggested.

THEY'VE PROBABLY ALL BLOWN DOWN. Death muttered, absently fiddling with MORTIS' tiny wee pawsies. AND I FAIL TO APPRECIATE THE IRONY INHERENT IN SUCH NARRATIVE PARALLELS.

"Still couldn't hurt to check." Anathema argued, who though Newt's idea - all things Newt, really - was just  _ super, _ downright brilliant, and perfectly amazing.

"Well, if some poor bugger volunteers to go out in  _ this," _ Crowley jerked his head towards the window, "who am I to stop them?"

A prolonged silence, in which it occurred to Crowley that really a lot of eyes - and eyesockets - seemed to be on him. Even the bloody cat's.

"Oh,  _ bugger." _ Crowley said, and made a mental note to think before he talked next time.

* * *

It is a lesser-known scientific fact that especially scathing curses do actually heat up the air incrementally, by sheer power of filthiness.

So, between the steady stream of swear words tumbling out from behind Crowley's chattering teeth and the three blankets the biting wind was constantly wrestling him for, the cold was actually somewhat bearable.

Very nearly.

No, not really.

His feet were close to freezing, for one. Snake skin boots* weren't exactly the best insulators.

*If they were boots at all, and not simply, well, snake skin.

Crowley regarded his shoes not unlike Schrödinger thought of his cat, and never thought to make careful observations whether or not they actually existed, for fear of the results.

"Watch your mouth, demon." Notziraphale snapped beside him.

"Y-y-you needn't-t-t have c-c-come along if y-you d-d-don't l-l-l-" Crowley chattered.

"Don't be an idiot." Though Notziraphale appeared mostly unbothered by the cold, his shoulders were locked as if he was trying very hard to keep them from shivering, and his wings on The Other Plane were drawn tight around him. "It's nothing short of lunacy to go out in this storm alone."

"It's n-nothing short of lunacy t-t-to go out in this s-storm, period." Crowley trembled. "I'd k-kill for-"

Notziraphale shot him A Look.

"Metaphorically!" Crowley corrected. "S-satan, Aziraphale! M-m-metaphorically! I'd  _ metaphorically _ kill for a warm water b-bottle!"

Notziraphale, to his credit, looked almost guilty. "Apologies. It's still difficult, to…" He made a gesture that was probably meant to encompass all of Crowley's non-Crawly-ness. "...sometimes."

"Mmmngk-k-k-kyeah." Crowley allowed, burrowing his nose deeper into his blankets, and wished demonic miracles were more effective against pre-Apocalypse storms. "F-forgiven."

They fought further through the snow - reaching up to past Crowley's knees by now - for another minute or so, before they needed to take a break.

"Actually… d'you s-still have the f-f-flaming sword?" Crowley called over the howling wind, currently picking up and whipping snow into their faces. "Would c-come in handy right about n-now."

Notziraphale made it a point to look anywhere but at Crowley, mumbling something into his collar.

"WHAT?" Crowley shouted. The wind really  _ was _ getting quite loud.

"I THREW IT AWAY!" Notziraphale shouted back, red in the face from embarrassment as much as the biting cold.

"YOU WHOT." Crowley shouted once more, but this time out of sheer surprise.

"Well, not  _ away." _ Notziraphale amended.  _ "At." _

"Whot." Crowley reiterated.

"Look, Crowley!" Notziraphale snapped, crossing his arms in the manner of those who know full well that they've done a very foolish thing but will be  _ damned _ before they own up to it! "If you've been tasked with guarding the  _ bloody _ Eastern Gate of the  _ bloody _ Garden of  _ bloody _ Eden, and a  _ bloody _ snake demon slithers up to you, you  _ BLOODY THROW WHATEVER YOU HAVE AT YOUR DISPOSAL!" _

The only reason the blankets didn't slip out of Crowley's slackening grip was because his fingers were too frozen to allow for it.

"You." He mumbled through blue lips, barely feeling the snow seeping through his trousers or the junior hurricane tugging at him, too numb to even stutter from the cold. "Threw the flaming sword. At."

"Crawly." Notziraphale confirmed darkly. "Yes."*

*What happened to the sword afterwards was unclear, but chances were Adam and Eve had picked it up to defend themselves against the wildlife during their escape from the Garden after they got sick of eating apples all day long.

Crowley stared at him.

And then he began laughing, almost hysterically.

"You…" He choked. "You- oh, Aziraphale, that's  _ brilliant, _ you, you're absolutely  _ incredible-" _

(Notziraphale made a rather peculiar sound that was swallowed up entirely by the storm.)

Crowley raised one hand to wipe already half-frozen tears of mirth from his face…

And then, a number of factors worked together to achieve rather unfortunate results.

One, of course, Crowley's weight being on the lower end of the scale, due to his snake-y physique.

Second, the blankets, which, without both of Crowley's hands holding them closed, acting not unlike a sail.

And finally, third, an especially vindictive gust of wind.

Notziraphale reached out with a glint of (strangely heartwarming - he  _ cared!) _ panic in his eyes to grasp him, but Crowley was already tumbling over the snow, carried away like a very gangly tumbleweed.

He wasn't even properly upset. After everything that had happened in the last few days, his only response to Going With The Wind was a tired sigh and ragdolling.*

*Besides, even if he  _ were _ in danger of breaking his neck, chances were Death would appear with the kitten on his arm and snatch him out of the air just like that; so, really, there was no call for using up his last reserves of adrenaline on this.

And, sure enough, only seconds later, something hard and vertical inserted itself in his path, which he hit with quite some velocity.

"Ow." Crowley said pathetically, and contemplated a cost-benefit analysis of simply curling up on the snow drift beneath the Hard And Vertical Thing and going to sleep.

"CROWLEY!"* Notziraphale was rushing towards him as fast as the snow allowed - though having the wind at his back certainly helped. "CROWLEY! ARE YOU ALRIGHT!?"

*Through the howling wind, it sounded a little like he was shouting for  _ Crawly _ instead; but that was probably only some acoustic trick. Even if Notziraphale had developed a modicum of concern for Crowley, he'd surely never had any for Crawly, and would never instinctively call out his name with such worry in his voice.

_ "Tickety-boo,  _ angel." Crowley grinned weakly at the sky, raising one arm to give him a rather sad little thumbs-up. "P-peachy."

"Tickety-what?" Notziraphale frowned, reaching out a hand to pull him up…

He froze, looking past Crowley at the Hard Vertical Thing.

Crowley followed his line of sight.

The Hard Vertical Thing - which, on closer inspection, turned out to be a sign - read  _ SAVE HAVEN Bed and Breakfast _ in a lovely, curly script, with  _ Vacancies! _ underneath it, and  _ All visitors welcome! _ with the "all" underlined thrice.

Crowley and Notziraphale peered past it, and, indeed, there was a cosy little cottage sitting in the middle of this terrible snow storm, the warm glow of light streaming through quaint floral-patterned curtains.

They exchanged a look.

"Well." Crowley said finally. "That… sure is convenient."

"Certainly is." Notziraphale extended his hand again. "Come on."

He hoisted Crowley to his feet, and they made their way back to the Volkswagen, which had  _ very conveniently _ stopped not even 50 yards away from the only B&B in The Middle Of Nowhere, Oxfordshire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Convenient B&B is convenient!
> 
> Thus ends the Road Trip of Doom, with Heavy Thoughts and Crowley getting them all lost. Are they close to Tadfield yet? Is it already too late to stop the Apocalypse? Is MORTIS really housetrained?  
> Questions upon questions... ;)
> 
> Do please leave a comment, tell me what you think!


	13. Love Of My Life (You've Hurt Me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP!!! DON'T READ ON YET!  
> First, go back to Chapter 1 and look at the AMAZING art my pinch-hitter, the incredible [Ryoukon](https://www.instagram.com/scila_e_kanon/?hl=pt-br) drew for it! It's absolutely lovely, I can't stop looking at it...  
> There's more to come, too - I'll add the illustrations to past chapters as I update with new ones, probably.
> 
> In related news, I have an emergency posting date now - so more fic to come in the next week or so!  
> (Also, this chapter took me a while, I'm so sleep-deprived I'm not even sure if it's good anymore... but it's IMPORTANT, so here we are.)  
> Enjoy!

The moment their little group of nothing short of catastrophically mismatched companions entered the B&B, they were accosted by the owner before they even had time to shake the snow off their clothing.

"Visitors!" A dimply elderly woman in a floral dress and a comfy woollen cardigan exclaimed, bustling over to them. "Oh, poor dears, look at you, terrible weather we're having, isn't it? ROLAND!"

(The last was directed over her shoulder, somewhere into the back of the cottage.)

"Roland, _visitors!"_

"Er-" Crowley tried.

"Oh, don't mind my Roland!" The woman simply continued talking over him, pulling out a faded old ledger. Crowley noted that the little tag pinned to her cardigan read _Maggie Tyler_. "He's a bit shy, you know, wouldn't want to impose on anyone, my Roland. But we do so love visitors! The more foreign the better. So lovely to share in the cultures of others, isn't it?"

"Yeah-"

"You'll be wanting rooms, I presume? Well, what am I saying, naturally you'll be wanting rooms!"

"Hnnrrg-"

"We're all free, bless this storm - of course, if your budget is a little tight, I'd be happy to give you a bargain, this _is_ a bit of an emergency, after all, and the beds wouldn't be slept in otherwise, anyway, would they?"

"No, we're-"

"Wonderful! Hospitality is ever so important, my Roland always says."

Crowley sighed, and gave up on ever finishing a sentence again.

"Let me get the-"

"DOG!" Adam suddenly exclaimed, and rushed over into the common room, where a massive Scottish Deerhound was curled up in a dog bed that would easily fit a grown man.

The dog's head rose, and its maw immediately split into a grin, tongue lolling out and tail wagging cheerfully.*

*To those of the Esteemed Readers who may have been wondering who Roland and Maggie Tyler were: you might want to know that the tag around the dog's neck read _"My name is Shutzi - if found please return me to M. and R. P. Tyler"._

Mrs Tyler - "Maggie, please!" - cooed happily, watching Adam dissolve in bliss and burrow himself into the Deerhound's side

"You know, dear, he's not allowed on beds… but," she winked, lowering her voice, "if you'd like - and if your fathers don't object, of course - I could make up the couch, and you could sleep here with him?"

Adam gasped, and nodded furiously, arms tight around as much of the dog as he could reach.

Maggie looked over at Crowley and Notziraphale, who both realised at the same time what she'd meant with "fathers".

"Ngk!" Crowley babbled. "We're, uh, we're not-"

"That's quite alright, Madame." Notziraphale interrupted, since Maggie already appeared to be gearing up to a good placating, how it was "not that kind of village here" - wherever "here" was - and how they needn't pretend when it was so obvious that Notziraphale was gay, and even more obvious that Crowley was in love with him. (Sort of him. Technicalities.) "I doubt we'd be able to pry him away with a crowbar, anyway."

Crowley ducked his head, hoping the flush could still be attributed to the cold outside. _And why did she let_ Notziraphale _finish his sentences, anyways!?_

Maggie tittered, and breezed back to get the room keys.

Crowley shot Notziraphale an incredulous look.

Notziraphale only shrugged, a bit of a challenging tilt to his chin that Crowley found simultaneously very scary and rather arousing.

(The assorted other humans/entities in the room, meanwhile, were pretending very hard that they had nothing whatsoever to do with the conversation.)

* * *

"Room 1 for the gentleman-" A key was offered to Shadwell, who shifted his maps to the other arm and gratefully accepted it. "-just down the hall. Room 2 right next to it, for the young man." Another pressed into Newt's hand, and a slight swoon at the winning smile he gave in response. "3 is upstairs and to the left, for the young lady, and you two can have 4."

She batted her lashes at Notziraphale and Crowley. "The honeymoon suite."

Crowley made a strangled sound. Notziraphale rolled his eyes, and took the keys, dragging him upstairs.

"Which leaves 5 for the... for you, sir."

AM I ALLOWED PETS? Death* asked, holding MORTIS up in a manner that was very nearly plaintive. SHE'S VERY WELL-BEHAVED, MORTIS IS.

*One would think Maggie Tyler ought to be irritated by the sight of a tall skeleton in a hooded cloak in her B&B but they really _did_ welcome all sorts here, and it was a man's own business whether he had skin or not, wasn't it?

"Naturally!" Maggie chirped. "Only, keep the little dear away from Shutzi, he probably plays too rough for her."

I WILL, THANK YOU. Death clutched the kitten to his ribcage even more protectively, subtly manoeuvring himself between her and the dog currently slobbering all over Adam's face.

(Death had only had MORTIS for much less than a day; and yet, chances were he might kill everyone in the room and then himself if anything happened to her, current inability to kill - and general inability to die - notwithstanding.)

And so, they all retired to their respective rooms, to rest and hope the storm would let up the next morning, and that they hadn't gotten _entirely_ turned around.

(Maybe one of them should've continued trying to ask Maggie where exactly they were?

Oh well.

There was always tomorrow, wasn't there?)

* * *

Room 4 - the honeymoon suite - was simultaneously better than Crowley had feared, and worse than he ever could've imagined.

It was a quaint, comfy space, homely and quintessentially English without trying too hard - a common fallacy among lesser B&Bs - and between that and the tartan quilt folded under the bay window, as well as the bookshelf on the wall, it was _exactly_ the sort of room Aziraphale would love.

(There was only one bed, _of course_ there was only one bed, and Crowley was doing his level best not to acknowledge that in any way, shape or form.) 

Crowley went to the quilt. Pulled it into his arms, gently caressing the frayed, well-loved fabric.

He could imagine, almost imagine, that his beloved angel had only stepped out for a moment, and any minute now the door would open, a warm voice say "oh, my dear," and then Aziraphale would step up beside him, pull him to the window, smile at Crowley over a cup of hot cocoa and they'd watch the snow fall together, warm and close and content, he needed nothing more, only this, oh, _only this..._

The door opened.

"Talisker or Bourbon?"

Crowley turned.

Notziraphale - _not Aziraphale, oh, not Aziraphale_ \- was holding up two bottles of less-than-middling quality alcohol in one hand, obviously pilfered from the downstairs cabinet.* 

*It mostly contained strange little spirits distilled from any herb and fruit imaginable, and beers with positively unpronouncable German names, all in tiny little bottles that were evidence of the cabinet's aspirations towards becoming a proper minibar.

(That, and the exorbitant price tags noted on the discreet list pinned to the wall next to it.)

He'd already poured himself a glass, which he swirled in his other hand.

"Thought you don't drink?" Crowley frowned.

"Demon, it's the End of the World as we know it, one of the Existential Truths of the Universe is coddling a kitten, and my nemesis has been replaced by an alternate version of himself." Notziraphale knocked his glass back and poured himself another. "I daresay it's time for me to start, don't you think? Now..."

He jerked his head towards the bottles. "Talisker or Bourbon?"

"Both." Crowley said, already holding out a miracled-up glass. "Both is good."

(He was going to need the blood alcohol, anyway; in this Aziraphale-room, and with a facsimile of the angel he loved sitting opposite him, so very obviously interested in him at least carnally, he either got drunk, or he would begin crying.

Or both.

Yeah, both was definitely on the table, too.)

* * *

"Anathema?"

"Yes Lord?" Anathema responded reflexively, setting the cup of tea she'd been making herself down and gazing up at the ceiling.*

*A Good Christian always had to be ready to be contacted re: virginal birthing of Her son.

It was considered quite the occupational hazard.

"Not him, I'm afraid." Newton Pulsifer leaned against the counter beside her, smiling in a way that made her stomach try out for an Olympic career in gymnastics. "Just a human, hoping to make use of the remaining hot water for his own tea. Trouble sleeping?"

"A little." Anathema pushed the kettle over to him, slightly giddy over the fact that _a man was seeing her in a less-than-fully-clothed state!_ "And you?"

"Oh, I don't plan on going to bed at all." A laugh like wildflower honey, rich and sweet. Anathema wanted to _lick_ it. "Someone has to work out where to go once we reach Tadfield, and Mr Shadwell hasn't had much sleep. So, naturally, I volunteered to re-trace the leylines, maybe send them through a cyberoccult mapping programme…"

"That sounds ever so exciting!" Anathema breathed, eyes wide and sincere. "Mr Pulsifer…"

"Newt, please."

Anathema hesitated. "...Newton?"

"Guess I can live with that." A wink - a wink! - and Anathema's heart did a terribly funny and probably Highly Sinful thing.

"Newton." She took a deep breath. "Might I… keep you company? I would dearly love to learn of what you do!"

(To know the Wiles of the Evil Ones better and combat them more effectively, she assured the Mrs Potts in her head.

...was lying in your thoughts a Sin? Anathema rather hoped not.)

"O-oh." Even his stutters sounded smooth. "I…"

Fingers tightening around the old, frayed book Anathema vaguely recalled he'd already carried around since The Ditch.*

*Capitalised for the significance she quickly realised that moment was going to have in her life as a whole.

"Anathema, I'd be delighted."

* * *

"A _theodolite?"_ Anathema pronounced carefully.

"Yep!" Newt confirmed, hands flying over the keyboard of his notebook. "I don't work much with them anymore, though. Nowadays, it's all digitalised, as much as possible."*

*That is to say, _Newt_ was digitalising. He was very much at the forefront of progress in this regard, having always been a dab hand when it came to computers and all that fiddly circuitry, even before specialising in this field.

_"Fascinating."_ Anathema leaned in close to the carefully set up apparatus, and Newt's fingers stilled.

For a moment he only watched her, this beautiful, inquisitive girl entirely unlike anyone he had ever met. Who fate and the not-gods and prophecies had dropped straight into his lap.

Who was… _perfect._

Damn it all. Why did she have to be perfect!?

He reached for the Prophecies, opening the book on one of the last few pages.

_The Bedde Ande Break Fast. Roome Two. Eye-of-Newt Pulsifer, Anathema Device, descendeth of the Nutter woman. Fornicate her. Maketh me Proude, boy._

Newt slammed the book shut again, threw it to the other end of the bed, and gritted his teeth.

This prophecy had haunted him since his earliest childhood, a niggling little shadow cast over his entire life. Some vindictive thing Adultery had cooked up to… what? Defile the Nutter bloodline from beyond the grave? Make little Newt trace her name over and over again until he lost his mind to it, this _Anathema_ he was going to "fornicate"* one day?

*Newt had learned the meaning of this word much earlier than any little boy should, of course, just like Pedantyk, which no little boy should know at all.

Did free will not factor into this at all? Consent? Would the Prophecies somehow _make her…_

Newt stopped his train of thought at this station, feeling just a little nauseous and needing to get off* right this instant.

*...unfortunate choice of words, given the circumstances.

Adultery hadn't been a kind man, it was entirely possible...

No. Out of the question. She could be as perfect as she liked, and the book could say what it wanted, this _wasn't_ going to happen. Not like this.

"They're not too difficult to handle." Newt continued to type, very carefully not looking directly at Anathema Device for fear of going blind to the potential consequences. "The crystals are pre-enchanted and do all the heavy lifting."

And then, because he couldn't bloody help himself, apparently: "would you like to try?"

For a moment, just a moment, everything about her screamed _"YES!!!"._

And then, immediately, the sentiment was forcefully muted.

"I… probably shouldn't." Anathema mumbled awkwardly. "It's… not very Christian, is it?"

"Not really." Newt shrugged apologetically.

"No." She sighed, more longing and wistful than anything else. "I didn't think so."

Anathema sat down on the bed as well, leaving enough room for Jesus and half his apostles, just next to the prophecy book.

"What's this, by the way? You've been carrying it since The D- the ditch, and it doesn't appear to be a Bible."*

*Which was, of course, the only book Anathema could imagine anyone carrying around with them; excepting, perhaps, the Great Book Of Chiropractics, which did wonders for your back if you slogged it about the right way.

"It's a book of prophecies." Newt did the sort of careless movement that one always imagined to look very cool, but which really was quite awkward… except in his case. "Been in my family for generations, just like this hat."

He gestured at Adultery Pulsifer's old hat, currently residing on the nightstand and emitting a vague aura of hatred in Anathema's direction.*

*Yes, the hat was just a little bit haunted.

But really, so were most things, they just had quieter ghosts; so that was quite alright.

"I think they're intended to see us safely through the impending Apocalypse, but we can't be sure. Adultery didn't much like to elaborate, so we follow what little instructions there are and pray."

"To God?" Anathema asked hopefully.

".....no."

"Oh."

A moment of silence.

"So, these Prophecies…" Anathema began, picking up the book and flipping through the pages. "Do you always do what they say?"

"Most times." Newt said smoothly, reaching over and gently plucking the book from her hands.

_(His hands trembled just a little when he pressed it to his chest, eternally relieved she had not seen the last few pages.)_

"Always, so far." He amended. "Only, some things are… well. It's good to remember, sometimes, that old Adultery is long dead, and that I'm my own person first, and a Descendant second."

Anathema blinked.

Being your own person first was clearly something that had… occurred to her; but the same way it _occurred_ to people that flying would be really neat, theoretically.

Newt's heart ached for her.

Such a sweet, pure girl. Innocent, in every sense of the world, and never allowed a decision of her own.

That settled it. Sod Adultery and his Rude ande Pedantyk Prophecies. Sod him sideways! He could write his hands bloody for all that Newt cared, he _wasn't going to make her…_

Anathema suddenly reached out, setting her hand onto the book, just above Newt's heart. "You'll be a terrible influence on me, Newton." She smiled, only a hint breathily. "Teaching me such things."

She moved closer. Most of the apostles were forced away, and Jesus rather had to suck his belly in. "Theodolites, and prophecies, and…"

"Computers!" Newt said quickly, smiling his most disarming smile and carefully angling his body back to the screen so that the immediate danger was averted. "They're the future of occultism, you know."

_(Anathema looked very disappointed for a brief moment, but then seemed to content herself with learning more Unholy Witchy things - even if she still imagined the alternative to be more fun overall.)_

"This real-time leymapping application, for instance. It's hooked up to the theodolite now, this list here at the side of the screen are the bare readings, and the rest the visualisation. It doesn't actually show _our_ location, but the general Tadfield area."

Anathema peered at the screen, fiddling with her oversized glasses.*

*She looked terribly cute in them, Newt noted, and then was very cross with himself for noting.

"Oh!" She suddenly exclaimed. "Well, we must be close then."

"...what?" Newt blinked at her.*

*We assure the Esteemed Reader that he looked extremely handsome in doing so.

"There." Anathema pointed at one swirl of leylines. "This is Tadfield, isn't it? The pattern looks like on Mr Shadwell's maps."

"When…" Newt frowned.

"They were right next to me in the car for hours." Anathema shrugged. "I glanced at them."

"Oh." Newt said.

"And this here, not so far away… the exact same swirl, but running counterclockwise. If Adam and his powers are… separated, somehow, as he said, this would make sense, wouldn't it? And all the other upset around it, not showing in the visualisation but here, in the readings…"

Anathema's finger skipped over the screen, jumping from number to number.

"Must be Mr Crowley, and Mr Aziraphale, and probably Mr Death, too. That's us. And even with the scaling being unreliable, that can't be so far from Tadfield itself, can it? We're in the general area at least."

"Oh," Newt said again.

_(And "oh" said his heart, politely stepping out of his ribcage and throwing itself at Anathema to do with as she pleased.)_

"You're… brilliant."

"Oh, no." Anathema ducked her head, flushing. "I'm not very bright. Mrs Potts says so."

"Not very- I've never seen anyone shine brighter!" Newt clasped her hands tightly in his, made her look at him with her clever eyes behind cute glasses. "Anathema Device, you… you're a genius!"

They stared at each other.

Swayed close.

Eyes flickering to lips, muscles tensing in anticipation of a desperate embrace, a tremor of lust…

Newt shifted, and the prophecy book clattered to the ground.

They both jumped apart, Newt only just managing to stop his laptop from following it to the ground.

That had been… close. Too close for comfort.

It definitely had to be some strange sort of Magic pull, because Newt was quite certain that it was perfectly impossible to be so desperately enamoured with another person within less than 24 hours of meeting them.

_(Anathema was really wondering now - had he bewitched her somehow? Surely, it must be perfectly impossible to be so ready to give up her… everything, to a near-stranger…?_

_Then again, if he had... then Anathema didn't think being bewitched was THAT bad, really, all things considered.)_

"I should… probably… do. Things. Over there." Newt said very quickly, somehow still the very picture of composure despite his obviously very heightened state of emotional distress.*

*Anathema risked a glance downwards to see if the tales the volunteer girls whispered to each other after Mass were true, and other aspects of Newt's had _heightened,_ also; but the Prophecy book appeared to be in the way.**

**Yes, Esteemed Reader, this is indeed symbolic of the book's role in blocking more than merely Anathema's _view_ of Newt's general pelvis area.

"...so should I." Anathema ducked her head, scurrying over to the armchair at the other end of the room, while Newt retreated to the desk and set up the computer and Theodolite there.

They spent the rest of the night like that, Newt taking readings that were now very nearly pointless, seeing as Anathema's brilliance had solved it all for them - who, in turn, appeared to occupy herself with a heavy bible that had a number of pages ripped out, and most of the remainder blackened out wherever there was a naughty word, like "lust", or "breast", or - the impropriety! - "rod."

At least Newt could take a measure of grim satisfaction from the fact that whatever was left of old Adultery was probably rotating in its eternal resting place at the sight of Newt _disobeying prophecies._

_(And yet, he couldn't help but think, gazing at her from the corner of his eye, I'd trade any grim satisfaction I'll ever have in my entire life away for just a single kiss.)_

It was a wretched business sometimes, being a Descendant...

And being _Adultery Pulsifer's_ Descendant, most of all.

* * *

In a Bed and Breakfast somewhere in Oxfordshire, the very picture of British Class was sleeping peacefully; two young people were very obviously and awkwardly in love; a boy and an Anthropomorphic Personification of the End were cuddling a giant dog and a tiny kitten respectively; and an angel and a demon had been working very hard at getting drunk for the past few hours, and frankly excelled at it.

* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged that any two man-shaped beings in states of advanced inebriation must be in want of someone to slur through a halfway coherent conversation with; and that, to advance this aim, they are like to bury any and all hatchets that might have been between them, and converse amicably despite their animosity.

Notziraphale and Crowley had attempted to drink in silence at first - as one would, with a murder attempt and plenty of sexual tension between them - but as the night went on, the alcohol predictably loosened their tongues and steadily chipped away at any and all guardedness that still lingered.

In fact, hearing them talk, you might very nearly think they were friends.

"Naaaaaah." Crowley shook his head in a giddy I-can't-believe-it-but-really-really-hope-it's-true way, and instantly regretted it as the universe tilted this way and that, like a cosmic see-saw. "Shuddup!"

"Y'doubting me, dee- deeee…" Notziraphale blinked once, very deliberately. "Deeemon?"

"Li'l bit."

Notziraphale aimed a kick at his shin, but it veered quite far to the left and hit the corner of the bay window instead. It seemed to satisfy him anyway.

"Well." He took another sip of alcohol,* leaning back in his comfy chair."S'the truth, and I've the daguerreotypes t'prove it."

*We truly cannot specify any further than that. When the Talisker and Bourbon had both begun to dry up, they had resorted to mixing the various other spirits in the cupboard together until the result smelled like something vaguely drinkable that was in no way worth its exorbitant price tag.

And then he had a second sip, since one was quite obviously not drunk enough if one was still capable of enunciating "daguerreotype", which was already quite the task sober.

"Nah." Crowley was grinning far too hard, he could tell, his fangs were likely showing - but he found he cared much less than he maybe should. "You? YOU an' teaching?"

"On m'honour as a businesshhhman." Notziraphale declared solemnly.

"But you're'n absolute bassstard wif no tolerance for anythin'!" Crowley exclaimed. "Dinn't think you'd've, y'know, patience for it."

"Oh, I didn't." He bared his teeth in a dark grin. "The little brats got wha' they d'served."

Crowley surprised himself by laughing, in the sort of bubbly, helpless way that spilled out of you when you were drunk, and he had to lean back a moment, rest his cheek against the cold of the window, until the giggles subsided.

Outside, the storm was still raging, and the opposite-world was edging ever closer towards its end; but Crowley was safe and warm inside, curled up in the tartan quilt, pleasantly beyond-buzzed and in the second-best company he could ever wish for - right after "his" Aziraphale - so… so it was, for once, not _all_ bad.*

*Not that it was necessarily _good,_ either; but after the experiences of the past few days, Crowley's standards had lowered considerably, and anything that didn't put him in mortal peril or extreme emotional distress was a gift to be cherished.

"Anyway!" Notziraphale said, just a hint too loud, rubbing one hand over his alcohol-flushed face. "There, there I was, teaching-"

"What'd you teach?"

"Don't interrupt, demon." Notziraphale snapped so automatically Crowley had a feeling it was a staple during conversations with his counterpart, probably followed by ignoring the question entirely and barging on.

Which, for a second, Notziraphale appeared to consider; but then, oddly enough, he softened.

"Latin grammammar." He slurred, the response offered almost apologetically.

Crowley cursed softly. He could imagine the exact type of professor Notziraphale had likely been, and it wasn't pretty.*

*The unfortunate few among our Esteemed Readers who have pursued similar studies will surely be familiar with his ilk as well: churlish at best, downright cruel at worst, prone to reciting declinations and conjugations as if they were sermons in the ever-same droning voice, and 

like to rip students apart for so much as a discreet yawn. We shudder to even _mention_ his exams, which, in this particular case, made their way down to Hell with Crawly's signature at the bottom, and earned him a promotion and the undying respect of the Infernal Tortures department.

As hard as it was to imagine, he was quickly growing to be even more in awe of Notziraphale's undiluted bastardry than he ever would've thought.

"So. Teaching. Me." Notziraphale hiccuped. "Idiot children all listenin', because they, they knew what was good for 'em. And!"

A somewhat unreadable but very forceful gesture.

"And up he gets, Crawly gets, in t'last row, school uniform and all! Shouts, he shouts, 'DOWN WITH THE ESTABLISHMENT!' - in Latin, 'course - and _throws,_ kid'y'not, a water balloon at me! 'Xcept, it's the, the 17-somethings, so it was probably a pig's bladder or summat. Filled wif lead nails! Who does that!?"

"How'd'he even geddit into your lecture?" Crowley frowned.

"YES!" Notziraphale pointed at him, somewhat pointlessly. "Drove me crazy, that. 'Nyway, long shtory short,* five days later t'whole country is, is _rioting,_ an' I'm sacked, wifout even getting my pay."

*Said long story included ten hours spent embroiled in a fencing duel all across campus, and double that engaging in a very different sort of _swordplay,_ if the Esteemed Reader catches our drift… but Notziraphale had long since realised that direct referring to either their animosities or their intimacies did _not_ go down terribly well with Crawly's alter ego, who tended to become utterly incapable of using vowels in response; so he refrained.

"But I'd've been damned if I wasted all tha' time teachin' t'little idiots for nuffin!" Notziraphale slammed one fist onto the armrest of his chair - luckily not the one holding his glass. "So I. I took what I was owed. From the library. Spoils of revolution, really. Sold t'damn things, was starldd… started…. schar… s'prised how _much_ they were worth. Figured, lucrative bushinesshh. An' THAT!" He finished, triumphantly. "Is how the booksellin' begun."

Crowley squinted.

"You're pullin' m'leg." He declared.

Notziraphale shrugged. "Couldn't make it up. True. Swear."

"Pig'sss bladder and all?"

"Pig's bladder and all." He confirmed solemnly.

Crowley snorted another laugh.

"Oh, y'r a hoot, Notziraphale," he said...

...and realised his mistake a second too late.

"Not-what." Notziraphale said immediately, sitting more upright in his chair and fixing Crowley with a hard stare.

"Uh." Crowley swallowed. Notziraphale was going to kill him.*

*Again.

There was absolutely no doubt about that, and Crowley braced himself for a good smiting and Death giving him a stern lecture about this being his LAST CHANCE, AND DON'T YOU GO ABOUT AGGRAVATING ANGELS AGAIN, DO YOU HEAR?, with wagging one bony finger around in front of his face and all.

And then, to his utter surprise, Notziraphale threw his head back and _laughed._

Wholeheartedly and for no other reason than genuine amusement, a far cry from the few bitter chuckles Crowley had heard before.*

_*And, oh, there were some laughs you could fall in love with if you didn't watch your step, and between those familiar eyes and now the laugh, Crowley was close to tumbling already._

"Hng?" He asked, hoping to convey a sentiment roughly like "I'm obviously very glad you're not ripping my head off my shoulders and turning me into a snake-demon pleather handbag, but I'd also rather like to know what exactly saved me, simply so I can thank God on my knees for it".

"No, no, s'just, s'just…." Notziraphale managed between chortles. _"Notziraphale!_ Should'a known, too alike for our own good, cos…"

He grinned up at Crowley through tears of mirth, and it was nothing like Aziraphale, and lovely all the same.

"Been callin' _you_ "Fakeley" in m'head!"

Crowley's jaw dropped.

 _"No."_ He said, deeply betrayed.*

*The Esteemed Reader is surely very aware that what Crowley is doing there is more or less equivalent to chucking boulders around in the middle of a very fragile glasshouse.

"Yes!" Notziraphale gasped, and dissolved into laughter again.

And Crowley ought to be cross with him - hey, if angels were allowed to be hypocrites, then so was he - but he got the distinct feeling that Notziraphale hadn't laughed like this in a long time.*

*Maybe even never. At least not in the presence of Crowley-shaped beings.

It seemed cruel to put a stop to it.

"But I've 'ctually got a, a diff'rent name than him!" He whined nonetheless. "S'not fair!"

"Silly name tho, Crowley. Y'not a crow." Notziraphale smirked over the rim of his glass. "Fakeley."

Crowley tried to slap his arm, but it turned into more of a caress when he wasn't looking.

"Notziraphale, y'bassstard." He said fondly. "Think Death got't right. If he, if Crawwely sssn't in love wif you. Opposssite of, of what I'd feel. If I were 'im."

He let that hang in the room, studiously staring out at the snow, instead of Notziraphale.

He hadn't meant anything by it, not really. Had merely wanted to tell Notziraphale, to let him know that- that he wasn't _unlovable,_ that he didn't need to settle for hatefully shagging a demon if he didn't want to.

That anyone except Crowley's polar opposite would come to _adore_ him, given time and some alcohol to overcome initial misunderstandings.

(Notziraphale was suddenly very, very silent, the smile dripping from his face like hot wax.)

"Y'know." Crowley murmured, after a moment of contemplation, the vaguely-alcoholic-beverage slowly beginning to weigh his eyelids down. "M'glad you don' love each other, you an' Crawely. Meansss I've a, a shot with mine, don't it? Not-Notziraphale."

The thought made him smile. A private little thing, between his heart and Aziraphale only.

"Think I might… might tell him tha' I love him. Try. Could be…"

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, pulling the tartan quilt a little tighter around his shoulders.

"Could be ssso happy, me'n'him."

It was quiet in the B&B, except for the wind outside…

...or, perhaps - we wish it were not - the dreadful, ominous roar of _foreshadowing._

"Oh, bugger." Notziraphale finally said, rather softly.

He drained his glass. Set it down. And reached over to shake Crowley back to wakefulness.

"Crowley. _Crowley."_

"Hnnnrrgggh?" Crowley said. "Tha's name. Mine."

"Need to tell you… shomething. Important, very important, y'need to know, b'cause…"

And then, to Crowley's horror, Notziraphale's expression split into a grimace of pain.

"M'sorry." He mumbled wetly, tears gathering on his lashes. "So sorry, don't deserve… but need to know. Hurt you, but, but, better. Long run, m'sorry..."

"Angel, you're ssscaring me." Crowley laughed, just a hint too loud. "Don't… don't. An' have more alcohol, y'll feel better."

"No!" Notziraphale shoved the proffered bottle away. "Ought be… sober. Wits about me, s'important."

"Don't." Crowley whispered nervously, fingers tight around his drink. He didn't know where this was going, and didn't think he cared to know.

If Notziraphale's hand hadn't been a searing-hot brand on his arm, he might've fled the room entirely, rather than just verbally evading like his life depended on it.*

*Oh Someone, _did_ his life depend on it? Maybe Notziraphale had slipped Holy Water into the scotch and was now regretting it, tearfully begging for absolution before Crowley succumbed to its Divine Burn, _sweet Satan and all His little incubi, he hadn't even written up a proper will yet, what if he really-_

Notziraphale closed his eyes, deep frown lines etching themselves deeper, and when he opened them again, the haze of intoxication was gone, replaced by far too many feelings for Crowley to decipher in his current state.

A deep breath.

"I have something important to tell you." He began, carefully. "And I'm afraid it's not something you'll want to hear. One could consider it cruel of me to tell you, but… it's a kindness, I suppose, to hurt you a little now and spare you greater pain along the way. You need to know, I _need_ to tell you, and… I can only reiterate that I'm very sorry about all this. The more I get to know you, the less I believe you _deserve_ any of it."

The look he threw him was almost tender in its sadness.

"You'll want to be sober for this, too, Crowley." Notziraphale said, very nearly kind.

(It didn't suit him.)

Crowley clutched his glass to his chest, already halfway to terrified, shaking his head until the world went all topsy-turvy. "Ngk. Nah. Don't think I do."

"Crowley-" Notziraphale began, one of those sharp sparks Crowley hated to see in Aziraphale's pale blue eyes fizzing into life between narrowed lids…

...and fading as quick as it had come.

"...very well then. Be that way. If you've forgotten by morning, I'll consider it Divine Kindness and speak no more of it."

A sigh. Notziraphale didn't fold his hands together, didn't fidget, despite his obvious agitation, and if Crowley had thought he was used to the wrongness of the little things by now, this proved him… well, _wrong._

"When you asked me why I hate Crawly… I lied." Forced out in a rush, almost too quick to hear. "You have to understand, I was _certain_ you couldn't be who you said you were, and Crawly-"

A short, bitter laugh.

"Heavens above, I'd _die_ before telling Crawly… _that._ So instead of the truth, I told you what I thought you wanted to hear, what was safe to say; and it wasn't technically lying, but if I were in your shoes, I wouldn't much care for the distinction, either."

Crowley swallowed dryly around the lump in his throat. "Wha're y'sayin'?"

_What could Crawly have done that was so unspeakable? To cause Notziraphale such obvious pain? He hadn't hesitated ever before, this hardened, bitter version of his beloved angel, what could possibly be that bad?_

Notziraphale clenched his hands to fists on his knees.

"The true reason why I hate Crawly is… I hate him because… because, in all the many years I've know him he's never, _never_ proven himself worthy of…"

A hitch in his breath, voice breaking with the purest of agonies.

"....of how much I _love_ him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)
> 
> "Wy," I said to myself, "that thing with Crowley being shot with Holy Water is the cruelest cliffhanger you've ever done, there's literally nothing you can do to top that."  
> Which, obviously, I took as a challenge.
> 
> Again, you're welcome to scream at me for it, I've never deserved it more.  
> <3


	14. No One Ever Told Me That Love Would Hurt So Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last exam tomorrow, ahhhhhh!  
> AND, new art by Ryoukon in chapter 2!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> Enjoy! <3  
> (Yes, I'm starting this chapter with a jump to other characters instead of continuing immediately with our two idiots. I'm very sorry. But you get another flashback to make up for it?)

Mrs Potts was not the sort of woman who had ever familiarised herself with the concept of "giving up".

She'd never admitted defeat to anything in all her life, forever steadfast, forever stubborn, set in her ways with a brutal conviction lesser beings cowered under. If she applied herself to something, really set her mind to it, then God Willing*, she was going to achieve it.

*And if God was not Willing… then God clearly didn't know what was good for Her, did She.

So, when the storm had picked up, throwing flurries of fist-sized snowflakes at her, Mrs Potts had lowered her head against the wind with the fire of determination and Righteous Fury in her eye, and drove the Harley's motor to even higher speeds.

Night was falling, and Mrs Potts just  _ knew _ her young charge was spending it in male company.

And, look, she Believed, oh yes, capital B and all, but she wasn't  _ stupid. _ She knew what young people were like in each other's Sinful company, and she knew that God never really sent Avenging Angels to interfere.

No, if she wanted to preserve young Anathema's unspoiled innocence, then she would have to do it  _ herself. _ Who knew what the Leagues of Evil - or  _ men _ \- would do to her otherwise!*

*Seeing as Newt had chugged both his respect-women juice  _ and _ his question-prophecies-of-dubious-consent juice by the gallon, the answer to that was, surprisingly, "nothing much" - but Mrs Potts did not know that, of course.

It was a perfectly unacceptable prospect, and no terrible storm was going to throw a spanner in the works - she was going to reach Tadfield. Mrs Potts Knew that with the same certainty that she Knew that God was watching her with pride.*

*God was definitely not watching her. God didn't really go in for the whole voyeurism bit anymore, She had far too much on her plate to actually be watching humans at all time.

No, that was a Santa-Claus-only thing.

So she raced through the storm, stopped by nothing - not even the long-depleted fuel gauge. Mrs Potts was a woman on a Mission, and, divine or not,  _ something _ was thrumming through her veins, convincing the Harley with unrelenting firmness that it didn't  _ really _ need all that nasty gasoline stuff, DID IT?, and if it was only her dogged stubbornness.*

*Which was not to be underestimated. Divine Powers were fickle and unreliable at best, but pure human determination only very rarely failed you.

Ahead of her, figures were standing in the street in front of a roadblock's infant nephew, who also happened to be rather sickly and on the slender side, waving for her to stop.

Mrs Potts squinted.

They appeared to have wings and halos. At least half of them.

Well.

She throttled the Harley, pulling up beside them.

"What?" She snapped, over the howling of the wind.

(It was, perhaps, not protocol when encountering rather obviously angelic beings; but, at this point, Mrs Potts was rather out of fudges to give.)

"G-greetings human." The archangel Uriel chattered, hands clamped under her arms to keep them warm. "We, we b-bring very unfortunate t-tidings."

"His Son has c-come unto this world a-at last. The Antichrist has R-risen." Michael continued, attempting a vague gesture of blessing that was utterly ineffective with the way her hands were shaking. "B-be Much Afraid."

"He R-rises in T-t-tadfield." Sandalphon finished, anxiously fidgeting. "Which, ah, we c-can't help but n-notice you're driving right t-towards?"

"Yeah, m-maybe don't." A much less divine creature the Esteemed Reader might recognise as Dagon piped up. "B-bad idea."

"Not t-that you need to w-worry about this at all, kind lady!" Hastur hastily reassured her from where he and Ligur were huddled up under Michael's wings. "Our s-sides are in agreement that we'll do a-anything to prevent any harm c-coming to humans."

Mrs Potts raised one indomitable eyebrow. Hastur would strike her as a distinguished, kind, respectable sort of man, utterly presentable and upstanding... if he weren't wearing a toad on his head. She Did Not Approve of toads on heads - or, indeed, anywhere on the body. Filthy creatures, toads.

She surveyed the rather sorry excuse for a roadblock further.

Angels, messengers of God. Bearers of Her* word. Ought to be obeyed.

*Mrs Potts thought "His", of course, which, theologically speaking isn't  _ incorrect, _ per se; however, the way she used it did not present merely another option besides the female and neutral forms, but very firmly  _ excluded _ any interpretation of God as anything other than an old white male, which, at  _ best, _ is one possible aspect, and at worst simply wrong.

Thus, we shall refrain from using it.

But plainly consorting with low, wicked demons. Ought to be condemned.

Mrs Potts made her decision. She'd wasted enough time on their babble already.

"BEGONE, DEMONSPAWN AND CORRUPTED ANGELS!" She bellowed with the impressive volume of a woman who Disapproved and had no intention of being quiet about it; and, with a roar of her Steed of Righteousness, she burst right through the by-no-means-immovable-nor-even-remotely-stable roadblock and raced off into the distance.

A last, fading "REPENT!" thrown over her shoulder, fading with the wind…

...and gone she was.

"Oh d-dear." Sandalphon whispered uncertainly, fiddling with the trailing ends of the bow around his neck.

"I do hope the p-poor woman is takin' good care of herself." Ligur murmured, summoning a little ball of Hellfire around his hand and letting the angels and other demons huddle around it, grateful for the warmth. "Snow and ice, treacherous at those speeds. Really don't want to see her bein' hurt."*

*Ligur, as part of Heaven and Hell's interdimensional work exchange programme - "Get To Know And Love Humanity!" - had spent the past year working with a very nice elderly paramedic called Linda, who had taught him a lot of very helpful things about how to make sure that humans kept their vital fluids  _ inside _ them, and all their limbs attached.

(Frankly, he nothing short of  _ adored _ her; and if not for the wretched Apocalypse business, he would've taken her out for tea on the weekend, to introduce her to Hastur and Michael. He rather hoped she was keeping safe, and could shoulder her shifts without him - but there was little point in fretting.

By tomorrow, at the latest, there would be no shifts. There would be no Linda. Chances were that there would be no Hastur and Michael, either... and, honestly, what would even be the point of there being a Ligur then?)

"Don't worry, I Blessed her." Uriel reassured him. "The cold, at least, may not touch her."

(Honestly, her fifteen jackets and cardigans had already taken care of that alright, but points for effort.)

Dragon, meanwhile, was working hard to restore the roadblock - which was really  _ trying, _ the poor thing - back into as close as it got go intactness with a little demonic miracle.*

*Off the books. She  _ hated _ paperwork, and dealing with unnecessary bureaucracy. Her filing system consisted of a wastepaper basket, and nothing else.

"Should we… y'know, should we try to prevent it all? The End of the World?" Hastur scratched his head, just underneath the toad, which, the Esteemed Reader might like to know, wore a little woollen hat that matched the scarf around Ligur's chameleon. "I'd rather like to carry on, you know. With all this."

He made a vague sweeping motion, the assorted angels and demons nodding in sombre agreement.

"Bosses say anything, Mikey?"

"Not their department." Michael shivered and huddled closer. "Been told we outsource that kind of thing now."

* * *

_ I love him. _

_ I LOVE him. _

In three little words, just three silly, inconsequential words, Notziraphale had taken Crowley's entire world and smashed it into smithereens.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't even remember he didn't need to, world tilting off-balance even as he found himself  _ painfully _ sober again.

_ I love Aziraphale, Crawly doesn't love Notziraphale. Never has, and never will. _

_ But Notziraphale loves Crawly, so… _

_ So… _

The thought hurt, like a dagger driving itself through his frontal cortex.

_ So Aziraphale doesn't love me. Never has. Never will. _

Crowley's glass slipped from numb fingers, landing on the carpet with a heavy  _ clunk. _

"I'm so sorry, Crowley." Notziraphale ran one shaking hand through his hair, nearly free by now of the product he styled it back with, the tips already beginning to curl and fluff; and it was easy, too easy now, to see the angel Crowley loved in him.

"I wish… but, God Almighty, you  _ needed _ to know. Or you'd have… and, considering what you've told me... he would've been kind about it, I'm sure. Kind and uncomfortable and skittish, never having the heart to break it to you that he doesn't… it's better this way."

Crowley made a weak sound, something inhuman and pained, like the wail of a Damned Soul slowly being torn non-limb from non-limb.

Notziraphale placed a gentle hand on his arm. Gentleness still didn't suit him, not in the least.

"It's not…" A weak, watery smile, and lost, so  _ lost, _ and Crowley understood it now, that abandoned, helpless look. Understood it all too well. "...not the end of the world, you know. It's not so hard to arrange yourself, take whatever they can give you. I've always known he's incapable of loving back, utterly unworthy in the first place, but... I'm taking whatever I can get."

"You. You're lying. Stop. Stop it." Crowley croaked, tongue like sandpaper in his mouth, rasping as it darted out to wet his lips.

A sigh. "I honestly wish I were."

"But, you… you  _ shot… _ without batting an eye, while you still, still thought I was…"

Notziraphale scoffed. "What, did you think I  _ meant _ that? I'm a  _ Principality, _ demon. A warrior angel. Had I aimed to hit, I would've, easily."

"You KILLED-" Crowley spluttered.

"HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY THAT I DIDN'T MEAN TO!?" Notziraphale exploded, and Satan, he was crying still, desperate tears sliding down from furiously narrowed eyes.  _ "Crawly _ knows the game we're playing, knows the moves, and  _ HE _ would've  _ ducked! _ Do you, do you have  _ any  _ idea, I thought I'd… oh Heavens Above, I thought…"

Notziraphale very nearly crumpled, collapsed into himself as if someone had removed all bones and other supporting structure from his body, and Crowley thought, a little dazedly, that this looked  _ exactly _ like he'd felt after the bookshop fire.

"When it sank in… I  _ never meant to, _ you have to believe me!" A plea Crowley felt was not directed at him at all. "I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I'd… but I thought you were Crawly, and you  _ found out. _ Thought you'd finally realised… and come to  _ torture _ me with it! Dangle what I could never have, what I  _ hate _ myself for wanting, right in front of my nose, and mock me for my weakness in wanting it. I couldn't give an inch, do you understand, Crowley? Couldn't prove him right, couldn't…"

Hands clenching to fists.

"I've not told anyone this, ever. Barely even acknowledge it to myself. Only you, and only to spare you the pain of returning to your soft little angel and finding he can't love you the way you want." Notziraphale grinned weakly. "You're welcome to hate me for it. There's already one demon with your face hating me, what's another, really?"

"No." Crowley shook his head, feeling his brain rattle inside it. "No. This can't… no."

He staggered to his feet, away from Notziraphale's too-rough hands. "You're lying. Hrrrngh. Yeah. It's a. A prank. A joke."

Crowley laughed, high and delirious.

"That's what this is! Very, ngk, very funny, but, come on, it's  _ Crawly. _ You don't really love the guy, do you?"

Notziraphale shot to his feet, grabbing Crowley by the lapels and dragging him close, fury sparking despite the wetness in his eyes.

_ "Do you think I want this?" _ He hissed. "Do you think, for even a  _ second, _ that I would  _ choose  _ to love Crawly? I HATE him! That despicable,  _ lowly  _ wretch, without a single decent bone in his body, this  _ monster, _ do you think I WANT to feel anything but burning hatred for him!?"

He shoved Crowley back, the fury quickly bleeding over into despair.

_ "And yet..." _ He whispered, utterly lost.

"And yet, I look at him and my life is... changed. I am a different being with him. I feel  _ whole. _ I  _ belong, _ I know it in my very soul. I touch him, and I feel the universe in my fingertips, he smiles and I am  _ damned, _ come now Crowley, you say you're in love, you know how it feels!"

"Like that." Crowley murmured weakly. "Just like you say."

"Yes."

"...you love him."

_ "Yes." _ Said like a sob. Crowley never wanted to hear that sound again, and especially not in Aziraphale's voice. "I don't know why. I don't understand it, never have. Not a single redeeming quality, never anything but cruel to me - when he isn't being a ravenous old lech - but still I love him. I swear, if I had an ounce of sense, I'd tell him to bugger off and never darken my doorstep again."

"But you love him." Crowley said wretchedly. "So you won't."

"But I love him." Notziraphale confirmed defeatedly. "So I won't."

Their eyes met, and both recognised a familiar pain in the other.

They sat back down. Considered the bottle for a moment, but silently agreed that no liquor in the world* could cauterise the wounds this conversation had ripped into their hearts, and it wouldn't do to try.

*Not even the Mr Potts Bitter Tears pub special.

"At least…" Crowley finally rasped. "At least you get to… you and him…" a vague, ambiguously-rude hand gesture "...you know."

"Oh  _ Crowley." _ Notziraphale said pityingly, the way one would say  _ "oh, you poor little idiot". _ "I would  _ kill _ to have what you have, don't you know that? If the Almighty descended before me and told me that Crawly would smile at me the way you do, uncomplicated and affectionate - not even loving, and just the once - if only I burned the universe to the ground and never touched him again - I would agree. Heaven help me, I would! In a  _ heartbeat." _

(And Crowley wanted to say he'd never trade Aziraphale's friendship away - and he wouldn't, not if he actually thought about it for more than one lust-crazed second - but the thought of Notziraphale loving and  _ wanting _ him, even if all they'd do all day was fight... he was weak to it, shamefully weak.)

"Ngk." Crowley said, and felt sick to his stomach.

Notziraphale didn't respond. Only buried his head in his hands.

"And…" Crowley tried. A long shot, fuelled by pure desperation, but what other options did he have? "...have you… thought about... falling  _ out _ of love with him?"

Notziraphale laughed wetly, not uncovering his face.

"Doesn't work like that, I'm afraid."

"Hng." Crowley was so cold, all of a sudden; but the tartan quilt was an unbearable weight on his shoulders now, and instead of curling up in it, he let it slide to the ground.

"What if… hear me out… Crawly  _ does, _ in fact, love……."

Another laugh… except this one did not stop, hysterical and broken and, with every heaving, shuddering breath, turning into more of a sob, until there was absolutely no doubt that Notziraphale was weeping into his palms.*

*Just like the earnest laughter, Crowley had the feeling this was a very uncommon occurrence, if not a singular one. Notziraphale said he'd never talked of this, barely thought about it, these were feelings long-hidden and shoved away.

Unhealthy, Crowley knew. At least  _ he _ regularly cried into his pillow to let some steam off.

He shouldn't apologise for saying something that  _ hurt. _ Notziraphale had ripped his heart to shreds in three words, he deserved to get the same back.

And yet, Crowley mumbled "m'sorry" under his breath, awkwardly reaching over and giving Notziraphale's shoulder a pat or two.

And then, he left the room, incapable of looking at Notziraphale any longer, this cruel, cruel bastard of an angel who had, for once, only meant well.

(Even more incapable of watching him cry with Aziraphale's blue eyes, wanting to comfort him and not knowing how; or to sleep with him in that singular bed too wide for one and too narrow for two.)

He didn't go far.

Sat down just in front of the door, and buried his head in his arm, feeling much too tired and heartsick to cry.

So all he did was close his eyes, and wait for sleep to carry him off into sweet, sweet oblivion.

* * *

_ Aziraphale woke with a start, only to find his hands bound tightly behind him and a circle of Satanic runes around him. _

_ "Crawly!" He hissed, darkly. He might've known. _

_ The church around him was dark and dilapidated, clearly a place of Satanic worship, and Aziraphale's skin crawled with it. He was certain that the floor would burn him if he weren't in possession of quite sturdy shoework. _

_ There was no sound besides his own breathing. It was a quiet, peaceful night outside, just as all nights had been of late. _

_ (The year, the Esteemed Reader might wish to know, is 1941 - halfway through the Second World Peace.) _

_ "Aziraphale." Came the purred response, a hand slithering around his shoulders from behind, lanky and unwashed russet curls dripping into his field of vision. "Welcome to my lair. So good of you to come, even if it was against your will." _

_ "Those rumours." Aziraphale strained against his bonds, but they held tight. "That was you, wasn't it?" _

_ "Naturally." Muttered into the hollow of his neck, and Aziraphale had to close his eyes and stiffen his shoulders against the resulting shiver. "Bit embarrassing. One whisper of book smugglers, and there you are, ready to buy? I'd advise some caution, Aziraphale." _

_ (The books in question - prophecy books, worth a bloody FORTUNE to the highest bidder - were stacked under the demonic altar, illuminated by the candlelight and plainly mocking him.) _

_ "Filthy demon." Aziraphale hissed, and bared his neck some more. "Go to Hell!" _

_ "Been there, bought the t-shirt." A very, very light kiss against his jugular, with just a hint of teeth. "And…" _

_ Crawly pulled back, Aziraphale gasping at the loss, and strode around him with long steps. _

_ "... it's where you'll be going, too." _

_ A terrible, terrible smile, and Aziraphale braced himself. _

_ "It's where the entire bloody world will be going!" Crawly laughed, spreading his arms wide, ratty old suit - at least three decades out of date - hanging off him in the most unflattering ways. "Aziraphale, my dear, I've gone through a lot of trouble, just for you!" _

_ Leaning over him, grinning like a vulture that got the carrion. _

_ "Are you pleasssed?" _

_ "Demon, what have you done!?" Aziraphale spat up at him. _

_ "Oh, nothing much." A coy inspection of his nails, filthy and claw-like. "Only arranged for a little… excitement." _

_ Snake eyes glinting with sinister mirth in the dark. _

_ "I might even say... it'll be a BLAST." _

_ Aziraphale followed Crawly's line of sight upwards. _

_ The sound of a plane, high up and far away… but drawing closer. _

_ His eyes widened as the penny dropped. _

_ "No." He gasped. _

_ "YES!" Crawly snarled back, manic and vicious. "Hellfire bombs on London, Aziraphale! East End, West End, Soho, Parliament, all up in flames! Starting with…" _

_ He pointed upwards. "Right. Here." _

_ "No!" _

_ "Oi, Kleinschmidt!" Crawly shouted over his shoulder into the dark. "How much longer until the bombs fall?" _

_ A woman stepped out of the shadows, the clacking of her heels loud in the church. _

_ "Two minutes, Mr Crawly." She said, checking an old pocket watch. _

_ "Two. Minutes. Enough time to survive if we run very, very fast indeed. Better start running- oh, oh dear." He laughed. "Seems like you're a bit tied up, doesn't it?" _

_ "You can't do this." Aziraphale growled. "You'll start a war!" _

_ "Yessss." Crawly purred, leaning so very close. "Isn't it  _ glorious?"

_ He dug his fingers like claws into Aziraphale's neck, biting a kiss from his lips. _

_ "Shame you won't live to see it." _

_ And with that, Crawly whirled around, stalking off. _

_ "You'll never get away with it!" Aziraphale shouted after him. _

_ "Oh, I very much will!" He called over his shoulder. _

_ "No." Said a voice, over the click of a gun. "You won't." _

_ Crawly froze in his tracks. _

_ Turned, ever so slowly. _

_ "Greta?" He asked, low and dangerous. "WHAT are you doing?" _

_ "Not Greta Kleinschmidt, I'm afraid." Aziraphale smiled, leaning back. He might've folded one leg over the other, if they hadn't been bound to the chair legs. "May I introduce: Captain Rose Montgomery, British Intelligence. She's working with me." _

_ The stunned look on Crawly's face was nothing short of priceless. _

_ "It wasn't easy to fool him." Rose's aim didn't waver for even a moment. "He's very… perspicacious." _

_ Aziraphale inclined his head slightly, before turning back to Crawly. "Now, demon. I suggest you call this off. No bombs will fall, not tonight, nor ever." _

_ Crawly bared his fangs, snarling. _

_ Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. _

_ The roar of the propellers was close now, very close. _

_ Crawly growled in frustration, and snapped his fingers. _

_ The sound immediately cut off. _

_ "Thank you, demon, much obliged." Aziraphale smirked as Rose undid his bindings. "Excellent work, Captain." _

_ "A pleasure to prevent a war with you, Mr Fell." She smiled. "As always." _

_ "Pleasure's all mine." He got up, straightening his jacket. "Now go, report back. I will… deal with him." _

_ A glance at Crawly, visibly seething, fury close to boiling over. He was breathtaking in his anger, and Aziraphale had never wanted him more. _

_ But not yet. It was part of the game, the mocking. The gloating. _

_ "Seems like you've fallen into my trap like the IDIOT demon you are..." Aziraphale smiled condescendingly at him, making his way over to the prophecy books. "And I'll be taking-" _

_ The books burst into flames before his eyes. _

_ Aziraphale jerked back, hissing in pain as sparks made contact with his hands, while Crawly cackled in fiendish delight. _

_ "Little demonic trap of my own." He drawled, leaning back against a nearby pillar. "You like it?" _

_ Aziraphale reached out in horror, but the books were ash and cinders already. _

_ "You…" he whispered softly. _

_ "YOU!" Aziraphale snarled, and he rushed at Crawly, hands closing around his neck, feeling the tendons jump under his fingers, the laugh still forcing itself out of the demon's chest. _

_ He could snap that slender, fragile spine, discorporate him, just like that. _

_ "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THOSE WERE WORTH?" _

_ "Hah!" Crawly forced out, beaming wide and joyless. "Come on, Aziraphale. You were bored out of your mind, I can tell, playing those silly money games like humans do. Was doing you ahnnnngggg!" _

_ Aziraphale had dug his thumbs deeper into Crawly's windpipe. _

_ "Ngk. A favour!" He choked. "In a way." _

_ "You insufferable creature!" Aziraphale bit out, pressing him against the pillar. "I despise you, and all your evil wiles!" _

_ "Liar." Crawly whispered breathlessly. _

_ In a flash, his hands came up, twisting with demonic strength, and then it was Aziraphale against the pillar, and Crawly's body pushed up against him. _

_ "You  _ love  _ it." Crawly purred, and kissed him. _

_ And then, for a moment, just a moment, the world stood still. _

_ Aziraphale saw, as if in a daze, Crawly's teeth digging into the skin of his shoulder, those spindly fingers ripping his clothes off, the glint of candlelight along his cheekbones. _

_ A gust of wind, and burnt paper danced through the air, like moths of ash, settling onto Crawly's hair. _

_ Aziraphale slowly, very slowly, uncurled one of his hands. _

_ Raised it to Crawly's chest. _

_ Placed it over his heart. _

_ And there were violins playing, and the universe beating rabbit-quick under his fingertips. _

_ "Oh," said Aziraphale, realising. _

_ And then, immediately after: _

_ "Oh,  _ fuck."

* * *

"Apologies for not coming sooner."

The angels and demons, huddling around a small, improvised fireplace, blinked through the snow, at the three figures on their bikes.*

*No, Esteemed Reader, we do NOT mean motorbikes. Bicycles.

To be precise, a red one with a bell shaped like a dove; a gleaming white chrome thing, sparkling even in the dark; and a sturdy black thing with a giant picnic basket tied to the back.

"We've been summoned to Tadfield." Peace smiled at them most disarmingly, and the atmosphere instantly relaxed, unsquared its jaw, loosened its shoulders, and leaned back more comfortably. "There's an… issue, with the continued existence of the world, yes?"

Everybody glanced at Michael.

Michael, uncertainly, glanced upwards.

_ It's quite alright, Michael, _ said the Metatron gently.  _ The Four will deal with this for us. _

(At "four", the Horsepeople winced visibly, and glanced over at the empty stretch of road that a fourth bike should occupy.

They… worried, to say the least.)

"There is." She confirmed, reaching behind her for... somebody. Something. Anything.

Immediately, Ligur and Hastur's hands curled reassuringly around her fingers, while Uriel put a hand on her shoulder, Sandalphon threaded his arm through hers, and even Dagon placed one palm between her shoulderblades as if to hold her up.

Michael took a deep breath.

(Purity, meanwhile, was studiously cleaning the poor little roadblock, turning it into a sleek and sturdy thing - now made exclusively from recycled and recyclable materials - bit by bit, the dirty snow-sludge dripping off as quickly as it gathered atop it.)

"The boy is in Tadfield, and his powers are growing. He has named the Hound, and… and by this time tomorrow, it will already be too late. But there  _ cannot _ be a Great War, we will NOT fight each other!"

"There can't be a war w-without warring factions." Sandalphon pointed out with a certain measure of fear, clinging to Michael's arm.

Good point. The angels and demons all nodded agreement, Dagon even encouragingly punching his shoulder.

Sandalphon giggled awkwardly.

"But there  _ will _ be something." Uriel muttered, breaking the almost-cheerful mood. "And if  _ we _ don't destroy the world… we fear  _ he _ might."

"And, begging your Horsenesses' pardon, don't think nobody wants that." Hastur added. "Certainly not us."*

*"Us", in this case, referring to Heaven and Hell both.

After the Great Agreement, the two sides more or less merged into one single business venture they might as well call "Heallven"; sharing one HR department, one board of Dukes/Archangels, and a single water cooler, which, the Esteemed Reader should know, fused a company together like nothing else.

(An Arrangement both sides profited heavily from. Hell's infrastructure had received a significant overhaul, starting with the leaky pipes and installing WiFi; and in turn Beelzebub had spread zir pastel-coloured motivational posters** all over Heavenly HQ, resulting in a startling boost of angelic morale.)

**"YOU ARE FANTAZZZZZZTIC!!!" in a rather whimsical, loopy font, with a bee giving a thumbs-up underneath, drawn entirely in crayons - to give just one example.

Peace exchanged quick glances with Purity and Plenty; then nodded, serious and sad.

"We shall try our best to convince him that this world is worth preserving." Purity said. "That beauty can still be salvaged from the dirt and ruins."

"That there is enough for all to survive, no matter what selfish, greedy people might have you believe." Plenty added.

"That love and forgiveness always triumphs over hatred." Peace finished. "Hold your post here as long as you can, my friends. Keep the humans away from Tadfield, just… just in case."

Michael saluted with one wing, both her hands occupied.

The Horsepersons inclined their heads, straddling their bikes again.

("Oh - here." Plenty pulled the picnic basket from behind his seat, holding it out. "For your watch."

Dagon scuttled forward and took the basket, full of hot, steaming pastries, warming and filling.)

The way the bikes stood beside each other was peculiar, oddly out of alignment, and the fact that one among their number was missing even more plain for it.

"And now…" Peace began.

"We ride!" Purity finished, determination flashing in their bright-white eyes.

And ride they did, through the air over the roadblock and off into the dark and the snow.

The Heallvenly Agents sat down around the fire again, and shared Plenty's pastries.

Now, all that was left for them to do was pray.

To God, to Satan, or something else entirely. It hardly mattered at this point.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a quiet B&B in Oxfordshire, a door opened.

Footsteps, soft and quiet, the floorboards only very slightly creaking under the weight.

A figure kneeling down at the side of a sleeping shape, all uncomfortable, curled-up angles and misery.

The figure spread a tartan quilt over the sleeper, rather gently; thus bundled up, picked him up from the floor, settling him in a carry; before slipping back through the door, which closed behind them with nothing but a little miracle.

* * *

_ Aziraphale salvaged what he could of his clothes, ripped and torn and stained, covered in the soot that had once been invaluable books of prophecy. _

_ His entire body ached, from being pushed up against the Unholy brickwork of the pillar; though very near pleasantly in places. _

_ It had been a good enough Wile, staving off the boredom of recent years, an excellent Thwart on his side, if Aziraphale did say so himself - and definitely one of the better shags. _

_ Say what you wanted of demons, at least they were attentive lov- _

_ Aziraphale paused in the middle of threading a half-ripped-off button through its hole. _

_...unfortunate choice of words, given the recent… realisation. _

_ That he was not thinking about. _

_ That he was NEVER going to think about. _

_ "I'm not sure what makes this more sacrilegious for you," Crawly drawled from one of the dirty pews, spread out luxuriously, still half-naked, and watching Aziraphale dress from under heavy lids. "That this used to be Your Side's place of worship, or that it is currently one of Mine's." _

_ "50-50?" Aziraphale suggested, not allowing any of his thoughts to show through the tightness of his voice. _

_ "Hng." Crawly inclined his head, eyes intent and unblinking, obviously appreciative of watching Aziraphale as he got dressed. _

_ (He'd had chosen to stand in the singular sunbeam falling through the half-ruined rafters deliberately. It was… nice, strangely, to at least be watched hungrily, if not with… _

_...another emotion Aziraphale was never going to admit he wanted. Had thought he wouldnt want, until last night, the ash in Crawly's hair, his heart under his palm… _

_ No. _

_ Not thinking about it. Never.) _

_ "Need a lift?" Crawly said suddenly. _

_ "...what?" Aziraphale blinked. The half-ripped-off button finally gave up the ghost, and fell to the ground with a little >plinck!< _

_ "A lift." Crawly raised one brow. "Cars, Aziraphale. Stupid metal things, much preferred horses myself, but here we are. If you're on my way, I could drop you off." _

_ Aziraphale squinted suspiciously. _

_ Crawly held up his hands placatingly. "Just a suggestion. Let nobody claim I don't take responsibility after shagging your knees wobbly." _

_ A wicked grin. "I remember how I felt after that time in the monastery, I know you must be halfway in agony from spending so much time in this bloody Damned place. So. Lift home?" _

_ Aziraphale stared at him. _

_ Another beam of dawn had crept through the broken stained-glass window, colours spreading over Crawly's still-bare skin. _

_ What was his game? Another trap, another shag? Both? _

_ Certainly nothing good. Aziraphale was onto him. _

_ (And besides, his heart raced in Crawly's company, painful and too quick for its own good, and he couldn't bear it even a second longer.) _

_ Aziraphale scoffed. "By the time you're dressed, I'll be halfway to Soho. Thanks, but no thanks." _

_ He shrugged into his suit jacket, shoulder aching where Crawly had buried his fangs into it. _

_ "You go too slow for me, Crawly." _

_ And with those words, he stepped out of the sunbeam, and left, careful not to let Crawly see his limp. _

_ At no point did he look back. _

_ Not even a glance. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHURCH SCENE, CHURCH SCENE!!!
> 
> The little bit on Heallven is for Just_AnotherFangirl, who was wondering about what opposite!Hell would look like! Not much, but a glimpse at least.
> 
> Also, if you're in the mood for some EXCELLENT analysis of Crawly and Notziraphale, read last chapter's comment by RosiePaw!
> 
> Know what, I might ACTUALLY finish this in time! Once I'm done with tomorrow's exam, I'll firmly plan to write without pause - and I managed this chapter from scratch since I posted the last, that's not bad going.  
> (And it's only the Tadfield arc and the resolution left to go, after all!)
> 
> As always, hope you enjoyed, do leave a comment, I live for them!!!


	15. Love Is Coming Home In Time For Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's just about to turn Valentine's Day in my time zone, so enjoy a chapter that... has barely any Notziraphale and Crowley, and, like the next one most likely, mainly focuses on the supporting cast. Oh well.
> 
> !!! ALSO: there's new ART I'm going to add to chapter 3, AND NOTZIRAPHALE LOOKS SO AMAZING I LOVE IT RYOUKON IS SO FANTASTIC, so everybody please look at it!!!

_ From the Rude ande Pedantyk Prophecies of Adultery Pulsifer, Witch: _

  1. _Earley Mornyng Hours, last Daye - Taddesfield - Eye-of-Newt Pulsifer. Storm Endeth._



_ [...] _

  1. _Middaye, last Daye - Taddesfield - Eye-of-Newt Pulsifer. World Endeth._



_ Touff Lucke, Boy. _

* * *

Crowley woke with a start, vague confusion over having fallen asleep cold and uncomfortable and waking up warm and snug as a snek quickly turning to panic.

Sleepy panic, that is. Crowley hadn't exactly slept all that well lately, and it was beginning to show.*

*Honestly, if he'd known sleeping would be such a Commitment, he never would've accepted that dubious-quality nap from the shifty sandman assuring him "of course, you'll be able to stop anytime you want!".

Just went to show, always say no to strange powders being offered to you by even stranger men called "Sand". Nothing good could come of it.

"Hrnrrrrrgh!?" He garbled, fighting the heavy blanket and quilt off him. He was in the bed, in the exact middle of it, and nothing pointed at anyone else having joined him in it.

"Morning, demon." Notziraphale greeted him, with pointed stiffness, and there was a wealth of  _ "We Shall Never Speak Of It Again" _ in that tone.

"Mfggg." Crowley mumbled, not capable of articulation anyway, no need to worry.

Notziraphale was sitting by the bay window, relaxed in a very deliberate and exhausting sort of way, taking care to look only outside and not at the bed at all.

(His eyes, Crowley noted, were far too reddened for anyone's own good, much less Crowley's own good.)

"It appears the storm has let up." A vague nod out the window.

"Gghk." Crowley agreed. "Whdim?"

"I'm not entirely sure what time it is, actually." Notziraphale checked his wristwatch - modern, the model not even two years old, slim and the sort that was expensive enough to lend you weight with certain crowds, but not so much to be a  _ total _ waste of money. "Eight, according to the clock, but that seems… not viable, given that the sun doesn't seem to have risen when I would've expected it to at this time of year."

"Ngmfpfff." Crowley agreed, peering blearily at the window, which might as well have been covered with dark grey drapes for all that was visible through them.

However, Notziraphale was definitely correct about the storm, none of yesternight's howling wind, and no snowflakes or raindrops or cats or dogs being pelted against the windowpanes.

Only a quiet, monotone darkness.

Crowley shuddered.

Then he looked at Notziraphale, pensive and quiet and and exuding an overwhelming air of hostility,* and shuddered some more.

*Crowley couldn't blame him for it, not really. Notziraphale's defence mechanisms generally boiled down to antagonism and lashing out, and Crowley had seen him at his most vulnerable last night. He'd say he'd act the same way if the roles were reversed, but really, the entire mortifying, painful, unrequited-love ordeal had been quite mutual.

So he was retreating into awkward avoidance, while Notziraphale looked like he might rip someone in half at the slightest provocation.

Just the way they rolled, ultimately.

"I hardly think the time of day matters, anyway." Notziraphale muttered grimly, placing one hand against the glass. "Not anymore."

"Ngrright." Crowley stretched. "Apocalypse."

"Oh, getting verbal again, are we?"

Crowley made a rude gesture with one hand, rubbing his sternum with the other. It wasn't exactly hungover nausea, but something deep in him still ached.

(It might be what remained of his heart, come to think of it, stabbing uncomfortably at his organs. Ouch.)

He threw his legs over the edge of the bed. No time to lose. Adam's Antichrist powers were floating about unchecked somewhere in Tadfield, and the sooner they put that to rights, the sooner this waking nightmare would end. Easy as pie.*

*"Pie", in this case, referring to the Great Pastry that was the universe, baked after an Ineffable Recipe full of quantum mechanics and strange philosophies by a Baker who didnt keep to any of the specified amounts of ingredients and smiled all the time.

"I have to say, considering there is at least the vague possibility of the world ending today…" Notziraphale sighed, breath white and misting against the window. "I might've liked to see the dawn one last time."*

_ *And, perhaps, search Crawly's face one last, desperate time for that expression he had gazed at the morning sun with, all those many years ago. _

Silence, for a moment or two.

Thinly-veiled hostility aside, Crowley really had to do  _ something  _ against that defeated  _ (and lost) _ slump of his shoulders.

He rooted through his exhausted brain for the right words, found none, and decided he would just have to settle for the probably-wrong ones and hope for the best.

"The End was stopped once, it can be stopped again." He began quietly. "And you'll see another sunrise. Another sunset. Another midnight, and days beyond count, rainy and sunny and absolutely anything in between. Another winter, another summer, a new decade, a new century, a new millennium."

He waited, made himself look straight into Notziraphale's tired, cried-out eyes when he finally turned to look at him. "There's still a tomorrow for you, Aziraphale. I promise."

"Ah. I forgot." Notziraphale smiled, and… it was weary and heartsick, but  _ genuine. _ None of that grimly smirking business, or the dead, exhausted one. Crowley counted it as a win. "You're an optimist."

"Naaaah." Crowley shrugged bashfully. "Just not my first rodeo."*

*He neglected to mention that the universe had still bucked pretty violently underneath him the first time around, and that there was no guarantee it wouldn't be even worse on this go; but he was trying to be reassuring here, after all.

Aziraphale, bless his heart, would've been confused, perhaps asking what That Dreadful American Nonsense had to do with anything.

Notziraphale merely nodded, that weary smile still on his lips, and said "then let's tame this new beast, too" as he crossed the room, headed for the door.

It wasn't the same, not by far.

But the fact that it wasn't hurt less, now; and Crowley very nearly thought he might be growing fond of  _ Notziraphale _ himself, rather than the glimpses of Aziraphale he had in him.

Before he followed him out the door, Crowley shot a glance upwards.

"God, if you're listening..." He murmured under his breath. "Let him see another dawn, yeah?"

No answer.

But then again, Crowley had hardly been  _ expecting _ one.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Maggie Tyler had just served the first round of scrambled eggs and baked beans to _'the sweet boy',_ _'that lovely politician man'_ and _'the gentleperson with the unfortunate skin condition and darling kitten',_ when _'the two young people'_ stumbled into the the downstairs drawing room that doubled as dining hall, a little awkward, not appearing terribly well-rested, and simultaneously trying to stare at each other and avoid the other's gaze.

Really, between this rather obvious display and her Roland very nearly tripping over  _ 'the flash but charming one'  _ in the hallway, she suspected that the two might've made better use of the honeymoon suite than whatever domestic spat had undoubtedly occupied it last night.

(MP Shadwell raised one eyebrow very, very slowly, in the manner of one who is predisposed to keeping calm and carrying on with all the usual decorum, but nonetheless feels obligated to make one's young acquaintance at least question one's youthful folly.*

*He knew, of course, that Nothing Of The Sort had happened; their awkwardness was not that of two people who had seen each other naked…….  _ yet. _

And that was just the crux of the matter: witches, as a whole, made it a point not to starve oneself of that which harmed nobody. And it seemed like what Newt had Obviously Not indulged in had not only been harmless, but actively yearned for by both parties.

Shadwell generally found himself a very supportive nature, but in this case he found he Did Not Approve.

Newt didn't so much as flinch or flush - though something of a guilty air permeated his general bearing, which Shadwell counted as a win.)

Soon after,  _ 'the lovely gay-not-as-in-happy couple' _ sauntered their way downstairs, both of them looking equally exhausted and miserable, though in a very different way when compared to the two youngsters.

"Toast and marmalade, scrambled eggs... and for you, gentlemen?" Maggie chirped, taking their requests.

"Coffee, black."  _ 'The obviously gay one'  _ declared. "No food, thank you."

"Ngk." His companion made an unfortunate, wretched sound, looking as if that last remark had ripped out his heart and trampled it into the ground. "Same, thanks."

Maggie made note of it, and bustled back to the kitchen.

Lovely people, really. So interesting! Her Roland seemed quite delighted, as well, glad to have so many visitors at once.

(Absentmindedly stacking plates and cups on a tray, she wondered if the young people had some fatty spliffers. They'd always wanted to try some.)

Conversation hadn't exactly picked up much as food was served, the couples sitting in awkward and icy silence respectively, and both the hooded gentleman and dear little Adam quite preoccupied with the cat and Shutzi.

Maggie turned on the radio in a desperate final bid at being a good hostess. Perhaps a bit of music would cheer them?

Sharp, crackling silence.

Maggie frowned. Turned the knob.

The radio warbled vaguely, but still nothing even remotely discernible as speech or a melody.

"Well, isn't that odd." She murmured. The storm had cleared, hadn't it?

Behind her, the elderly gentleman and the young man at least appeared to be talking about… maps and distances and locations, which wasn't, perhaps, the most universal breakfasting conversation topic, but  _ something, _ at least.

She gave the radio a good thumping…

And to her surprise, it worked.

**_Attention, all earth operatives,_ ** the radio said, in something rather terrifying you couldn't, in good conscience, call "a voice".  **_It ends today. Save as many humans as you can. Save yourselves. There is NO GREAT WAR, I repeat, NO WAR. We're all in this together. Save each other._ **

A brief pause.

**_Welcome to the End Times._ ** The not-quite-voice said, and sounded almost sad.

**_Welcome to the End Times._ **

**_Welcome to the End Ti-_ **

Maggie thumped the radio again, and it cut off into white noise.

Oh, but what a strange radio play that had been, very strange. BBC Radio 4 getting experimental again, it seemed.

(And stranger still that all her guests now stared at the radio with expressions of bone-deep terror, as if it might explode at any point and take the entirety of Oxfordshire with it.)

Not that Maggie minded, all in all. She and Roland rather liked the peculiar.

Speaking of..

"Roland!" She called into the kitchen, where her Roland was undoubtedly still sitting and writing his letter to the city council.*

* _ Dear Sirs, Madams and Persons, _

_ I would never dream of bothering you if this were not dreadfully important; however, I have noted with some displeasure the deeply racist remarks of a certain council member, and must humbly request that the council consider forcefully resigning him. As countless letters similar to mine in content will prove to you, he does NOT speak for the Tadfield community, which expressively welcomes any and all… _

"Roland! The radio is acting up something dreadful!"

A vague mumble.

"Oh, don't be like that, Roland! They're all lovely people, our guests. They'll not bother you whatsoever, silly old man." She shot a conspiratorial glance at said guests, who… still all rather looked like they might cry or throw up or both. "Now come and fix the radio."

"...alright then, Maggie." Her Roland mumbled a little louder from the kitchen, and, after getting the electronic kit from the broom cupboard, he finally shuffled into the dining room.

Adam gasped, and dropped his cutlery.

"MR TYLER!" He exclaimed in a mixture of horror and elation.

"Who?" Most of the table said, except Crowley, who said, softly, "Oh,  _ him", _ and MORTIS, who wasn't exactly very articulate.

"R. P. Tyler, he, in our world, he…" Adam babbled. "S'Head of the Tadfield Neighbourhood Watch, which must mean, if he's here…"

A grin broke out on Adam's face.

"Then we're  _ in Tadfield already!" _

"Why, of course you are!" Maggie laughed, while her Roland ignored the upset (he liked to keep his nose out of such matters) and proceeded to pluck the radio apart. "Where else would you be?"

OH,  _ OF COURSE! _ Death slapped a bony hand against a bonier forehead. THE TYLERS! OH, THIS IS EMBARRASSING. I SWEAR I'M USUALLY BETTER WITH FACES.

MORTIS mewed supportively, and stopped munching on scrambled eggs just long enough to headbutt his elbow.

Adam raced over to the window, pulling open the curtains.

It was still grey outside - but a substantially brighter grey, very nearly a faded white, and, oddly, vague shapes just about visible...

"My, it  _ is _ quite misty outside, isn't it?" Maggie tutted, her husband nodding in agreement. "Proper pea soup! Look, Roland, you can't even see the memorial, and it's hardly ten yards away!"

"I have to…" Adam scrambled over to the door, hope and joy writ large all over his face. "Home an' Dog an' my friends-"

He pulled the door - unlocked, "we trust the community", to quote Maggie - open.

And Adam  _ beamed,  _ stunned and ecstatic, as if whatever he saw outside was a good deal more Paradise and less hazy-impression-of-Tadfield-behind-a-thin-veil-and-while-not-wearing-glasses than it actually was, eyes gone all wide and sparkly. Heaven had opened its pearly gates to him, and it was all fog and hoarfrost and  _ familiarity _ beyond.

He made a move as if to race outside…

And froze halfway.

"I." He said uncertainly. "I shouldn't jus' run out, should I."

A pause.

"Anythin' might happen to me." He continued slowly. "I'm scared to go out alone."

Adam blinked.

"I'm... scared. To go out alone." He repeated, and his expression was morphing into something nothing short of horrified, as if he couldn't believe himself what he was saying.

_ "Mr Crowley, Mr Death, I'm scared to go out alone!" _ He said in a voice pitched just a little too high, turning in his desperation to the only two beings in the room who had a chance of understanding.

OH DEAR. Death said softly. SO IT'S STARTING TO HAPPEN TO YOU, TOO.

"What is?" Anathema scrunched her face up in concern. "Adam, are you okay?"

(Adam, looking like he might start crying, was categorically Not Okay.)

"But don't you and the other three always-" Crowley began, mildly confused.

"Yeah!" Adam nodded furiously. "Tha's why m'worried, Mr Crowley."*

*Adam, leader of the legendary Them, would  _ never _ worry about being out and about in Tadfield on his own, nor pay any heed if parental figures did, so this was a rather unnerving development, to say the least.

"I take it the lad is usually not quite so… responsible and conscientious?" Shadwell ventured carefully.

"Nnnnope." Crowley sighed.

"Act'lly, what am I even doin' here?" Adam continued. "Runnin' away from home! I should be in  _ school _ right now, not worryin' my parents, s'not very well-behaved of me."

He paused again, wide-eyed and mortified.

_ Help me! _ He mouthed, not daring to actually voice his plea just in case it turned to something or other about not having done his homework.

OH, YOU'LL GET USED TO THAT. Death said absentmindedly, reaching down to unplug the possessed radio to make sure R.P. Tyler didn't electrocute himself.

Adam tried once more to run out and find his friends, his  _ Dog, _ like he so, so desperately wanted, but his body wouldn't obey, staggering back.

"Kid…" Crowley pushed back his chair. "Don't… oh,  _ ngk." _

Adam had begun crying, and he'd never been quite comfortable with the tears of children.*

*He'd been rather better at it as Nanny, but he hadn't been Nanny for years, hadn't allowed himself to as much as remember those happy days tending to Warlock and speaking to Aziraphale in the garden as dusk settled about them, mundane and normal and oh so lovely.

He glanced over his shoulder at Notziraphale, who pulled a rather clear "not my department" face - Mr Cortese had been in charge of Warlock's education, not his emotional wellbeing - and then Anathema, who was already flipping through her bible for some encouraging line that would hopefully restore Adam's faith in God Making It Alright.*

*Honestly, Anathema herself had never been particularly good at that one, but… what could you do, fix it  _ yourself? _ According to Mrs Potts, that wasn't how it worked.

And then, to everybody's surprise,  _ Newt,  _ of all people, got up.

"Hey, Adam? Can you take some deep breaths for me?" He asked warmly, kneeling down in front of him. "There you go. It's okay. It's okay to be scared."

He lowered his voice, mock-conspiratorally. "Don't tell the others, but I'm actually pretty terrified myself, you know. And not just now, just…  _ generally."* _

*His winning smile wouldn't suggest it, self-assured as ever; but the Esteemed Reader ought to know that  _ everybody _ is, at all times, at least a little terrified, no matter what else they might be pretending.

And so was Newt, for all his suave confidence. Terrified of death - not Death, you couldn't really be terrified of something currently holding a kitten, it just Wasn't Done, but the general concept of  _ being _ dead - and the End of the World, of Anathema and the very-terrifying-indeed things he felt for her.

(He was even quite afraid of Tibet and tunnels, though he never quite figured out where that particular phobia came from.)

Adam nodded weakly, taking as deep a breath as he could, and then another.

(Shutzi ambled over to him, flopping down on his side and pushing his shaggy head against Adam's hand - well, entire lower arm - which also helped somewhat.)

"And, you know, that's not a bad thing to be, Adam. Being scared. It keeps you safe."

(Crowley winced at the wording, memories of the events a year ago surfacing and quickly being pushed down again.)

"I  _ wanna _ go find my friends though..." Adam said in a very small voice.

"Then… you don't have to go alone." Newt gently ruffled his hair. "You can take a grown-up or two who take care of you, and we'll figure out how to put you to rights again, yeah?"

_ (Anathema swooned slightly. Good with children, too! Oh, Newt really was the full package. _

_ Speaking of package, Anathema's thoughts - which had rather been in the Gutter of Sinfulness since meeting him, but what could you do - were rather wondering about the size of his. Just by the by.) _

Adam shot a nervous look at Crowley and Notziraphale.

_ "Responsible  _ grown-ups?" He asked under his breath.

"Oi!" Crowley scolded goodnaturedly. "None of that cheek, kid!"

"Yes Mr Crowley of course Mr Crowley!" Adam immediately babbled, and looked like he might be quite sick any second now. He'd never respected any of what R.P. Tyler - the original, that is - liked to call his "betters", and hadn't planned on ever starting.

(Crowley, too, grimaced. He'd never been  _ respected _ ever before, and didn't particularly like it.)

Newt, for his part, frowned.

That… wasn't a good sign, Adam's  _ opposite-condition _ appearing and worsening so strongly in so little time. He would've hoped that he'd merely regain his - presumably untethered? - powers and return to normal.*

*Well, Antichrist normal, which was about as close to normal-normal as a Pomeranian with fake vampire fangs in its maw was to a fully-grown wolf, which was not very close at all, really.

This was obviously not the case, and it indicated… further complications, to say the least.

_ One problem at a time, Newt, one problem at a time, _ he told himself.

"The most responsible we have." He assured Adam firmly. "Don't you worry."

* * *

The streets of Tadfield were exactly like Adam remembered - not that there had been much time for forgetting, but Adam was very young still, and two days seemed a lot longer when you were still a kid - except, of course, for nearly everything about them.

Porrit's Lane still crossed over into the northbound branch of Gardner Row, the memorial still sat in the middle of the village square, Hogback Lane still wound through Tadfield as it always had.

But every second house was either in disrepair, or modernised substantially, with none of the untouched idyllicness - idyllicity? - Adam remembered.

_ Adam's _ Tadfield had been a perfect place plucked straight from droll children's adventure books, a boy's childhood paradise. Dream-like in all the best ways, a piece of Heaven fallen down onto Oxfordshire.

_ This  _ Tadfield, on the other hand, was… just a place. A town like a hundred others in the area, falling prey to gentrification and rural exodus like the best of them.

Adam, of course, hardly understood any of these concepts. Couldn't put his finger on the wrongness of it all, only knew it Wasn't Quite Right.

And the weather… the weather wasn't exactly helping, either.

Hoarfrost covered everything, the streets, the grass, the walls, roof, trees, a world dipped in crystalline glazing, a layer of sugar and glass shards covering the entire of existence and crunching underfoot.*

*Only made scarier by the knee-high snow of yesterday being suspiciously absent, without a single flake remaining.

And at some point in the middle-to-close distance, the sharp white glitter of the frost gave way to the hazy fade of fog, swallowing the world in a much-too-small radius around them, thick and impenetrable by any light.

Even the sun was nothing but a blot of vague brightness at the horizon, dimmed so strongly that you could easily look straight at it without having to fear for your eyes even in the slightest.

Faint tendrils of steam were rising from chimneys, and from the occasional manhole in the street, sewers presumably producing some measure of warmth, misting in the cold air as if the ground itself was breathing.

Because it also was  _ cold. _ So, so cold.

Adam shivered slightly. It wasn't right, to have weather like this when it was still summer, nor to have the world be only cold and white and silence.

Not right at all.

He was accompanied by the most responsible adult Newt had been able to muster, which, of course, was MP Shadwell.*

*Crowley and Notziraphale had been right out from the start, Newt himself needed to study the Prophecies further, and Anathema, however lovely, didn't exactly give you the impression of a figure of authority, so Shadwell it was.

Death, too, was with them, because Death always was.

And also, he wanted to let MORTIS have some fresh air, so there was that.

The kitten was currently cradled against Adam's chest, since he was very much in need of an emotional support animal, and Death had categorically protested against taking Shutzi.*

*Aside from his continued fear that the beast might maul MORTIS, Death also really didn't like the way the dog was eyeing his shins with a speculative glint it the depths of his eyes. No, no that wouldn't do at all.

As much as Adam was a dog person, when a kitten was purring in sync with your breathing, you couldn't not love and cuddle it, it simply wasn't done, so he was cradling her tenderly while Death was ambling along beside them, aimlessly chattering about the Top 10 Causes Of Himself in Britain, with Shadwell nodding and making the occasional polite noise.

Adam didn't quite listen, thinking instead about his multiplication exercises which he had neglected to do, and a wave of shame nearly swept him off his feet.

And then, an even worse tidal wave of horror at feeling guilty. It was wretched, was what it was, this entire swapping business.

First, all these strong and confusing emotions the likes of which Adam should never have been bothered by until the worst throes of puberty,hand then he was dependent on  _ grown-ups. _

No, Adam didn't like it, not one bit.

Pepper's house was closest to R. P. Tyler's… to the B&B, to be precise, and Shadwell pressed the doorbell, before calmly folding his hands before him and waiting for the door to be answered.*

*Campaigning experience had well-prepared him for this eventuality. Once, a younger Shadwell had spent 43-and-a-half hours in front of what he had assumed was the door of a particularly stubborn individual, until it turned out they'd gone to Sussex over the weekend. Embarrassing affair, but certainly a learning experience.

Adam let MORTIS jump to the ground, where she instantly began to bat at the hoarfrost-encrusted branches hanging down low enough for her to reach.

They waited.

No sound from inside the house.

Shadwell rang again. Waited some more.

...come to think of it…

Adam swallowed. Glanced over his shoulder as far as the fog allowed.

Tadfield wasn't a  _ busy  _ village, of course, far from bustling even at the best of times; and yet, there should be  _ some _ old ladies just come back from grocery shopping with a net full of cat food tins, a kid racing along, maybe a poor, confused tourist or two.

But nothing.

The world was white and  _ dead _ around them, fog the colour of old bone and the colour of the white space at the sides of someone's eyeballs.

It was terrifying, and more than just a little.

Adam stepped back a little, but neither Shadwell nor Death noticed.*

*MORTIS did, but she ain't no snitch, Adam knew.

He needed to get back to the B&B, if not home - NOT home! Adam reminded himself fiercely - and curl up under the covers, doing something fortifying and worthy of his time, like studying or writing application papers.

Through the back gardens would be much quicker, and since Adam already hardly knew how to ever make it back to the Tyler's without his newfound responsibleness pulling him back to Death and Shadwell eventually, that was his best bet.

Giving MORTIS a last little pat, he turned on the spot and raced back vaguely the direction he knew would lead him in a direct line to-

Adam froze at the sound of a familiar voice.

The cold lump of fear that had sat in the centre of his chest since he'd woken up in unfamiliar dinosaur-patterned bedsheets eased. Not entirely, but there was a spark of warmth, where none had been before.

_ "Pepper," _ Adam breathed softly, relief nearly making him dizzy.

Things would be alright if  _ Pepper _ was with him. Pepper always Knew About Things, she could bite people until they cried, and she liked to order him around, which Adam, in his current state, was more than fine with.

When Pepper was with him, he didn't feel like he had any reason to be afraid, because Pepper was strong and brave and could take care of herself just fine, and even better of others.*

*She'd punched one of Greasy Johnson's boys once for stealing Wensley's glasses, and kicked a teacher - a teacher! - in the shin for being sexist. Pepper was the most Badass person Adam knew.

(She'd gotten detention in both cases, and taken it with her head held high, fully unrepentant and proud of her actions, as well she should be.)

She would know where Dog was, and she'd tell him to stop being a wimp, and help him fix things because that was Pepper. His bestest, toughest friend in all the world - excepting Dog, naturally.

"Pepper!" Adam pushed himself up the fence to peer into the backyard of Pepper's mum's house. "Pep-"

It was Pepper…

...but Not Pepper.

The warm little thing in Adam's chest cracked and broke.

"Oh, Pepper…" he whispered, feeling quite terribly hurt and betrayed.

The-girl-in-the-backyard-that-wasn't-actually-Pepper(-the-girl-wasn't-her-not-the-backyard) - a name that is quite a mouthful, the Esteemed Reader will surely agree, and better shortened to simply "Pepper" - was wearing a dress, for a start.

Now, Pepper didn't exactly believe that dresses were inherently sexist. Dictating what women wore  _ was _ sexist, but if you wanted to wear dresses and then did because of you and nobody else, then that was actually Very Emancipated, Pepper said.

But she herself didn't like dresses at all. Impractical, she said, and pink was a really ugly colour, like the inside of your eyelids and curled-up strawberry gum, ew. How would you be able to climb trees and catch frogs and punch people with all those ruffles in the way!?*

*"I think, Pepper," Wensley had contemplated thoughtfully when the matter was first addressed between them, "That the girls who wear pink dresses are the sort who don't really like trees and frogs and punching in the first place, so that doesn't really matter to them."

"Well, I'm glad I'm not that sort of girl, then." Pepper had decided, and they'd never seen her in a dress, not before and not since.

So the fact that this girl wore something that made her look like a particularly princess-y mountain of candyfloss with some extremely whimsical clips in her hair was Adam's first hint that something was amiss.

The second was what she was  _ doing. _

Pepper trained fencing with sticks.

Pepper did tricks with her cool, basket-less bike.

Pepper could do the best tricks with a soccer ball, including balancing it on her ankle, which was very impressive indeed.

Not-Pepper sat at a lilac plastic table with a few stuffed animals and dolls, pretending to pour them tea.

"More tea, Mr Bearington?" She asked, very sweet and posh. "Here you go. Lady Rosebud, another scone?" A tinkly laugh. "Oh, goodness, you really must tell me more of your nephew, the eligible bachelor Prince who pines for me so!"

Adam whimpered a little at the sight. This wasn't Pepper. Couldn't be. It was wrong, so, so wrong.

...and, come to think of it, her movements were… repetitive. Choreographed. Always the same pattern.

"More tea, Mr Bearington?" Pitched exactly as before, hands tilting the toy teapot at the exact same angle. "Here you go." Taking the exact same empty plate as before, holding it halfway to the doll with pink glass eyes, "Lady Rosebud, another scone?"

Adam shivered, tugging the three layers of jacket offered by Maggie Tyler from the B&B's lost-and-found tighter around himself, and only now realised that Pepper's pink candyfloss dress was far, far too thin for the weather.

(And that a thin layer of hoarfrost covered her bare arms, her face, her hair, glinting in what little sunlight there was whenever she moved. Adam was suddenly glad he wasn't close enough to confirm the suspicion that her eyes, too, were covered in a thin sheen of ice particles.)

"More tea, Mr Bearington?" Not-pepper trilled, and Adam couldn't bear it a second longer.

"Pep!" He hissed. "Pepper?"

"Yes?" She turned, smiling emptily, frost on her lips, and not even a spark of recognition in her eyes.

"It's  _ me, _ Pepper!" Adam tried a grin, but it wouldn't quite come, fingers curled very tightly around the top of the fence. "Adam!"

A bland, bland look. One of her hands crept towards Lady Rosebud's scone platter.

"Don't… don't you remember me?" Adam pleaded, desperate to keep her attention on him and stop her from eternally continuing her strange routine.  _ "Adam.  _ We're friends!"

"Oh, I see how it is." Pepper daintily set the teapot down, pinky stretched out. "Really, you should've asked my parents for permission first, but... I suppose it's okay like this, too."

"...wha' is." Adam said.

"Well, your proposal, silly!" Pepper giggled loudly. "Maybe a winter wedding?"

"What." Adam said, very softly.

"I'll be an excellent wife to you!"

"I don't-"

"And you'll be the bestest husband, won't you? And we'll have children, a boy and a girl, and it'll be all very grand!"

_ "Pepper," _ Adam said, and this one was nothing short of heartbroken.

Dear Esteemed Reader, let us, at this point, tell you the story of Pepper - whose name was Penicillin Granuloma Monocyte, actually, and Pepper only for short.

Her name had been given to her in honour of her father, a medicine student who had attended the college right next to the Finishing School Pepper's mother had studied at - a recipe for eventual disaster, the Esteemed Reader will surely agree.

The two had been very much in love… and then, suddenly, the med student was out of it, and Pepper's mother pregnant for her troubles.

This had been unfortunate, naturally. You could be as Finished as you liked, a baby born out of wedlock was rather detrimental to the chance of receiving the sort of marriage proposal Pepper's mother had been hoping for.

But Pepper's mother had persevered, moved back in with her parents, began earning a living in the sorts of jobs she deemed ladylike enough, and put everything she had into preparing her daughter for marriage.

(Just because  _ she _ had lost her chance at a good match didn't mean that Pepper had to go through the same. Not if she could help it.)

So Pepper was an Accomplished Young Maiden, as Finished as they came, and aspiring quite forcefully towards becoming the most exemplary dutiful housewife the world had ever seen.

It didn't even really matter who her husband would be, as long as he could support her fine, Pepper hardly cared for the details.*

*This miiiiiiight have something to do with the fact that Pepper found boys a little yucky, generally, and honestly envied them a little for being allowed to marry  _ girls, _ who were far prettier and had beautiful hair and smelled so nice.

(The idea of lesbianism would be quite the revelation to Pepper one day, but that day was not  _ this _ day, and we are already digressing.)

  
  
  


"Now." She turned back, and it was almost as if an automaton was ratcheting back into its starting position. Which Adam would normally find quite cool, robots and all, but not if it was his  _ friends _ bein' robots!

"More tea, Mr Bearington?"

_ "Pepper!" _ Adam called urgently. 

"Yes?" She turned, that same empty smile affixed on her face.

"Look, Pepper. M'sorry, but this isn't right!" He started. "You're no' like that, Pep."

Her face pulled into the politests, daintiest frown you'd ever seen. "Beg pardon, but who are you?"

"I'm  _ Adam." _ Adam felt his eyes getting quite wet. "Pepper, please!"

No recognition. Bland looks. Mr Bearington getting served more tea.

Adam wanted to cry. He wanted to run back to the nearest person of authority and revise some spelling. He wanted to curl up in a ball and be absolutely terrified of what was happening, to him, to the world, to his friends.

Instead, Adam squared his jaw, gripped the fence tightly, and jumped over it into the backyard.*

*Something deep in him he was entirely unfamiliar with was screaming  _ TRESPASSER, TRESPASSER!!! _ into his brain, but he ignored it firmly.

If Pepper was only going to pay attention to her stupid tea party, then Adam was simply going to join her in it.

Shoving Bearington out of his chair, he sat down opposite her, glowering.

"More tea, Mr-" Pepper stilled.

For a moment, there was something almost  _ alive _ in her dull, frosty eyes.

"I don't believe I caught your name." Her voice was monotone, teapot hovering in the air in an undoubtedly uncomfortable way.

"M'Adam, Pepper." Adam said softly.

"I have a friend called Adam." Still so monotone. "But you're not him."

Adam scrunched up his nose. What did she-

"Oh!" She chirped. "You must be Lady Rosebud's bachelor nephew!"

She held out her hand like the ladies in old movies did. "Charmed."

Adam awkwardly grabbed it and gave it a good shake. Pepper did not seem pleased by that.

"Pep," he began.

Pepper seemed even less pleased with that. "Manners!" She scolded.  _ "My Lady." _

Adam blinked. "M'not a lady in this game. Am I?"

"No, I-" Pepper's expression tightened for just a moment, a spark of frustration, the frost on her cheeks melting ever so slightly…

And then it cleared.

"More tea, Mr Adam?" She sing-songed. "Here you go!"

Adam slumped, trying the imaginary tea. It was indeed quite good.*

*Imaginary blends were some of the best imaginable, of course, if you believed in them. And Adam believed in krakens and aliens and Tibetans in Tunnels - how alliterative! - so a bit of tea wasn't exactly a stretch.

"Pepper,  _ this isn't you..." _ He muttered weakly, watching her hum to herself as she played perfect hostess. "You… you like playin' in the mud, and you bit me in the foot when I was bein' a misogynist stupidface, and you wanna destroy the patriarchy. Remember the patriarchy, Pepper?"

"Splendid idea!" Pepper beamed. "I can't wait to have a husband!"

"Might be gettin' sick." Adam mumbled.

I CAN RELATE. Death - who was suddenly there, but had, of course, really always been there* - patted him on the shoulder. BUT THEN AGAIN, THAT I'M COMPASSIONATE ENOUGH FOR RELATING TO THINGS IS HALF THE PROBLEM.

*MP Shadwell was still stoutly holding guard at the door, only very discreetly checking his watch on occasion and re-stiffening his upper lip in regular intervals. Death figured he'd had it handled.

He set MORTIS down on top of Lady Rosebud, putting a saucer full of imaginary milk in front of her.

MAY I HAVE A SCONE, MY LADY?

"More tea, Mr Adam?" Pepper repeated serenely. "Here you go. Another scone, Lord Azrael?"

THANK YOU.

Adam glared at Death, who wasn't exactly being helpful, and not even really counting as responsible enough to assuage his guilt over disobeying - though he certainly was the grown-uppest it got - and braced himself for a last desperate attempt.

Mr Crowley had managed to arrange himself with Mr Aziraphale bein' different, after all, and he and Mr Aziraphale were even better friends than he and Pepper,* so what Mr Crowley could do, Adam definitely could, too.

*Founded in the knowledge that Mr Crowley most definitely wanted to marry Mr Aziraphale, and Adam, while considering Pepper his bestest friend, didn't really have any aspirations in that regard; and Pepper - the real Pepper - felt much the same.

"Know what, Pep?" He said, very seriously. "S'okay, you bein' so... girl-y now. Was jus' surprised, on account of you not bein' normally. S'okay to be girl-y, an' it would be very sexist of me, thinkin' otherwise. Only, you us'lly-"

Adam paused in his disjointed rambling. Pepper didn't seem to register any of it, instead serving more tea and scones to Death and "Young Ms MORTIS", who was now wearing Lady Rosebud's hat on her little kitten head.

"An' none of that matters." He tightened his fingers around his cup. "I jus' know I can't go and leave you here, servin' tea an' bein' all zombie-like. So come with us, Pep."

He reached out, touched her hand, rough with hoarfrost that only barely melted away under his fingertips; skin so, so cold.

"Bad things are happenin'. Real bad. I'm scared, Pep, really very scared. An' even if you don't know me anymore, we're still  _ friends. _ I still like you, an'... I need your help. I need to find Dog an' Brian an' Wensley, an' there's no-one else to ask. An', most of all..."

Said brokenly, with all the desperation in the world: "I need  _ you, _ Pep."

SHE'S NOT GOING TO REACT, ADAM, I'M SORRY. Death said, soft and sad, tickling MORTIS's little chin. THIS IS THE  _ OPPOSITE _ OF PEPPER, AND I HAVE THE THEORY THAT-

Pepper's fingers twitched under Adam's, warming quickly.

Light returned to her eyes, even as the frost dripped in rivulets from her skin, some small measure of life creeping back into her expression like the first snowdrops of spring breaking through the frozen ground.

She set the teapot down, confusedly blinking at her surroundings like someone waking from a long, deep sleep.

…HUH. Death said. HOW STRANGE.

"...it's so cold out." She finally said, in a small, uncertain voice that still wasn't the Pepper he knew - but not the Tea Party Robot Pepper*, either, and Adam was so relieved over that, he might well cry.

*"Robot Pepper's Lonely Hearts Tea Party" was, incidentally, one of the most famous albums of the Beatles of this world - and very good bebop it was, too.

"Oh- here, Pepper!" He quickly shrugged out of two of his jackets, rushing around the table to put them around her bare shoulders.

(It was exactly the gentlemanly sort of gesture that instantly endeared him to her.)

"...Adam, am I correct?" She said, batting her eyelashes at him. "Enchanté."

"Gesundheit." Adam said. "D'you want the third jacket, too?"

Pepper didn't, but that was alright.

They were getting on.

(And, hopefully, some answers about what was going on in Tadfield, at last.)

* * *

_ The boy wasn't listening. _

_ "Please, young Lord." Purity held out their hands placatingly. "You need not-" _

_ The boy's eyes hardened. _

_ A gasp of "White!" from Peace, and that was all the warning they got before the Hellhound jumped forward with a growl, nearly taking their hand off if Plenty hadn't tugged them back at the last second. _

_ "GO AWAY!" The boy wailed, and the world trembled with it, the same rumble that reverberated through the Hound's throat, ready to rip out and the world asunder. "LEAVE ME ALONE!" _

_ "Lord, we are your friends, we always have been!" Plenty begged. "Hear us out, at least!" _

_ "I have no friends," the boy whimpered. "It's all gone. They're all leaving me behind. Mom and Dad and… and  _ Nanny. _ All gone. You're all liars, I don't have friends!" _

_ The fog surged up behind him, thrashing like a living thing. _

_ "I DON'T HAVE ANYBODY!" The boy screamed, and rose into the air, his eyes black and dead. "GO AWAY!!!" _

_ "Lord-" Peace cut herself off. "Adam, Adam Young. Please, listen. There need be no Apocalypse. The world can be saved, can continue on for thousands upon thousands of years, you may rule it eternal with our aid and guidance there is no need-" _

**_AND I'M NOT CALLED ADAM!_ ** _ The boy was no longer doing anything that could be described as something even remotely like speaking, his agony ripping the words straight into the fabric of the universe.  _ **_I'M NOT YOUR LORD, AND I DON'T WANT TO RULE ANYTHING FOR ETERNITY!_ **

**_I just… I just want this nightmare to BE OVER._ ** _ Warlock sobbed. _

_ And as Ripper let out a long and terrible howl, the universe bent and, finally,  _ broke _ under the Antichrist's powers. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing 10k today and yesterday (and not sleeping much), but, I'll be DAMNED, I'll finish this yet!  
> Sadly, that means I don't have time to answer all your lovely comments just yet - which I will try to do eventually! - so let me just generally mention something here: I initially planned to have Crawly encounter Aziraphale, but that would've been A Whole Thing, so due to time constraints, that probably won't happen.
> 
> HOWEVER, I more or less plan to write some more fics in the Upside-Down'verse after the BB is over, and that's definitely one scenario I'll be exploring!
> 
> So, hope you enjoyed, happy Valentine's Day (or happy-to-be-single day! ;)), and hopefully you'll get a new chapter or two wrapped up tomorrow.
> 
> (P.S. Dear Nugget: you're not this far in the fic yet, I know, so it might be a while until you read this, but happy Valentine's, and... thanks for letting me write through it while making sure I don't die of dehydration and sleep deprivation. You're the best! <3)


	16. Soon The Cold Of Night Will Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, another new chapter already!
> 
> Also, those among you who have read Good Endings might know that part of My Brand is getting a bit eery around the Apocalypse-themed climax of a fic... in other words, expect more creepy fog-and-hoarfrost-themed shenanigans!
> 
> This feels so much like a filler chapter, still very ensemble-cast, but... I guess that's the way of it.  
> Enjoy nonetheless!

_ "Isn't it time for you to go back to your young charge, 'Mr Cortese'?" Crawly asked, in his very own slightly-too-sharp, half-vicious way of being playful. "You usually throw me out long before dawn, 'get thee behind me, let not thy foul shade darken this doorstep again' and all, so this... is unusual." _

_ Unusual. Unusual! All of this was unusual, if you asked Aziraphale. Their fights were toned-down considerably, in deference to the magnitude of the stakes Heallven and the two of them had in this particular game, and some nights… _

_ Some nights, the only violence they showed each other was scratches and bites when their affairs had already relocated to the bedroom. _

_ There was still nothing affectionate in it, no, Aziraphale wasn't deluding himself in that regard. But they had something of an armistice, and... it unsettled him. Was the unthinkable happening at last, and Crawly was losing interest in their games? _

_ Or… _

_ "You don't think I'll be able to stop it, do you." Aziraphale realised, pausing in the middle of buttoning his shirt. _

_ "He says, apropos of nothing." Crawly huffed. _

_ "You've not tried very hard to sabotage me, went along with things, let me throw you out in the middle of the night." Aziraphale said, almost impressively calm for interaction with his nemesis. "You're being agreeable because you think it's all a doomed enterprise that will bring me to ruin eventually anyway, and, well, you've always been the lazy sort. Am I correct, demon?" _

_ Crawly leaned against the windowsill in Aziraphale's cramped employee bedroom, turning his face towards the sunlight. A snake thing, he'd always suspected, this fondness for the dawn. _

_ "What can I say, I'm a pessimist." Crawly grinned without joy or warmth. "And slothful." _

_ "Get out then, vile wretch." Aziraphale scowled. "I can stop the boy. Teach him better. There'll never be a Great War." _

_ "Oh, naturally not, neither of our sides wants one." Crawly snapped his clothes back onto his body in a single smooth movement. "But if not us, if not him, then it's  _ them _ who will burn it all to the ground. It's a question of time only, Aziraphale. In a year, a decade, a century, it'll be all over, mark my words." _

_ He sauntered over, reached out, tightened the knot of Aziraphale's tie just the wrong side of too much. _

_ "Wish the boy a happy eleventh birthday from me, if you actually plan to stick around that long." He said, and there was just an edge of hardness to it. "And have a nice doomsday." _

_ Their last kiss before what might well be the End of All Things ought have been as harsh and bruising as any of the others. _

_ Instead, it was an almost wistful little thing, brief and a mockery of tender, and Aziraphale ached with it. _

_ He wondered, sometimes, if Crawly searched his face the way Aziraphale searched his, after these encounters. _

_ What he saw, what he hoped to see. _

_ Whether, perhaps... _

_ But, ultimately, Aziraphale doubted it. _

_ He rather suspected his face had made quite the spectacle of itself after this kiss; and it wasn't like Crawly to observe such things without mocking them instantly. _

* * *

Crowley stared down at the radio in his hands, not-repaired despite R. P. Tyler's best efforts, volume turned down low so the eery message didn't grate quite so terribly on the borders between the celestial and the human plane.

"Welcome to the End Times," he muttered, soft and more than a little helpless.

Adam was running around the village in the faint hope that something or other would let him regain his powers, Anathema and Newt were flirting in the other room over leylines and prophecies, and Crowley…

Crowley didn't know what to do with himself.

It had been  _ easy, _ the last time. Aziraphale had told him to go to Tadfield, and of course Crowley had gone, without hesitation, without question, following wherever his angel -  _ alive, alive, bless whatever he needed to bless, alive _ \- led him.

But now? What was he to do, now?

"A bit useless, us. Aren't we?" Notziraphale sidled up beside him. "Don't lie, demon, you were definitely thinking it."

"Well,  _ they're _ doing alright." Crowley shrugged. "Searching the village - less than systematically, sure, but searching still - and sifting through those damn prophecies. Which were invaluable in our world, by the by, so if Adam doesn't figure things out out there, witch boy and his girlfriend are probably solving it. In the End, there wasn't very much to do for us- for him and me, anyway. The Apocalypse, that's about  _ them _ being tested. Not us."

"...I wonder." Notziraphale said, taking the radio from his hands and turning it off.

They sat in silence for a while, staring out at the fog.

"Look, Crowley." Notziraphale finally stated with all due firmness. "We must do  _ something  _ about it, mustn't we. What else should we do, sit here and… and  _ talk!?" _

Crowley shuddered. "Satan, please no."

_ "Precisely." _ Nothing good had come from talking so far, and nothing good was ever  _ going to _ come from it, most likely.

Crowley thought awhile.

"How about." He said finally. "We go where the whole damn thing went down in  _ my _ world."

Notziraphale raised one brow in an invitation to explain.

"Some... things… have been happening just the same or at least similar here, after all."  _ Discorporation and possession, going to Tadfield, running Anathema over… there were parallels. _ "And even if, with our luck, this'll happen in the exact reverse, at least we'll have covered all of our bases."

Notziraphale pulled a face. "That sounds like a terrible idea."

"Yeah? D'you have any better ideas?" Crowley crossed his arms in front of his chest. "D'you have _one_ _singular_ better idea?"

Notziraphale scowled at him in a manner that very plainly indicated he did not, and didn't like to admit it.

"...lead the way, demon."

* * *

"He's been... strange, lately, Adam's been." Pepper sighed, fiddling with the hem of her dress. "We're engaged, you know? He promised he'd marry me someday, and- well, actually. He didn't say no when I asked, so that's as good as."

Adam winced, recalling Pepper's scowliest scowl and her lecture on consent,  _ "absence of yes still means no, Adam, that's real important!" _

"But… two days ago, he went very… peculiar. He didn't recognise me! Insisted we call him  _ Warlock Dowling. _ Now, I'm quite alright with being Mrs Pepper Young, but  _ Dowling? _ No, I told him it wouldn't do, and he seemed very upset by it. And then there was the dog…"

"Dog!?" Adam perked up. "Scrappy little thing you can have fun wif, one funny ear?"

"No." Pepper frowned. "Great terrible beast. We definitely can't keep it, it'll eat the baby!"

Adam slumped back again, barely even having it in himself to be appalled by the insinuation of family planning.

"The other two were going to talk to him, but I had to be home by 6. Wouldn't do for an unmarried girl to be off with boys at night, not without a chaperone."

"Gesundheit." Adam said again, automatically. "...the other two?"

  
  
  


Before we proceed, the Esteemed Reader ought to know that the gang around this world's Adam Young consisted, just like the Them, of three other children.

Pepper, of course, we have already mentioned. Proper and Accomplished, always insisting that everyone be polite and well-behaved and ideally propose to her as soon as a ring could be afforded.

Adam - that is to say, "Adam" - was, evidently, out of the picture and replaced, so there's little point in talking any further about him.

Let us, then, elaborate towards the remaining two.

First off, Jerry.

Jerry's full name was Jeremy Wensleydale, but nobody ever called him "Jeremy" - not even his parents, who called him "you little menace".

He was a rambunctious little boy, prone to pranks and loudness and, since he had received a subscription to _Little Jester's Magazine_ for his last birthday, quite appalling jokes that he repeated so often that even the dead horse thought he was overdoing it.*

*The jokes in question didn't even make use of the endless comedic potential of bodily functions or jokes about one's mother. They were mostly terrible puns, and half of them only worked in writing, which Jerry cheerfully ignored, reciting them anyway to anybody who wasn't up a tree by the count of three.

He started 60% of conversations with "knock knock!", 30% with "I read a joke that was very funny actually in the new  _ Jester's" _ and the remaining 10% with an angelic smile and a "hey, want some of my gum?" while holding out something that was very obviously a joke article ready to prank the unwitting.

"Menace" was putting it mildly, and outsiders usually suspected that he was only part of the group because he was harder to get rid of than one of those obnoxiously cheerful door-to-door salesmen.*

*In fact, the only thing that stood between Jerry and bartering away rubber chickens and fake moustaches in the suburbs was  _ time. _

They couldn't truly imagine anyone voluntarily befriending a boy like Jerry, much less regularly spending time with him.

Just goes to show that  _ they _ frequently lack imagination.

Because even  _ if _ "Adam" only kept him around for the hilarity of seeing the fallout of Jerry grating against the education system,* and Pepper mostly liked him because "Adam" did, regularly turning up her nose at his jokes, Jerry did have one  _ true _ friend, at the very least.

*Their 3rd form teacher simply refused to come out of the janitor's closet after the thing with the crickets and the super glue, and legend had it that he still lived there, only creeping out at night to correct exams left out by unsuspecting students. It was a proper Phantom of the Grammar School situation.

Said friend was the fourth in their little group: Brian.

Every gang needs a Brian. Always kind, always responsible, always cleanly, arbitrator of fights and a soft-spoken voice of reason whenever their illustrious leader had a truly ridiculous idea neither of the other two were going to put a stop to.

Why he and Jerry got along so well, nobody knew. In fact, it wasn't certain if they actually  _ did, _ seeing as Brian might just be too nice to do anything but nod and smile along when Jerry cracked another ghastly joke.

However, if he  _ was _ only humouring him, then he was quite unreasonably committed to the bit.

Jerry was as insufferable with him as with everyone, if not more so, playing a game he called "Brians of Britain", which mostly consisted of addressing Brian with the names of a variety of famous other Brians, just for fun.*

*His favourite was Brian Boru, King of Medieval Ireland**; though Brian Blessed ranked quite high on the list as well, if just for the irony of Brian being so incredibly soft-spoken, and Blessed being… not.

**Yes, Esteemed Reader, Boru could arguably not be counted as a British Brian. However, Jerry picked the name of the game mostly for catchiness, and his interpretation of "Britain" tended firmly towards the international.

And yet, Brian let him, and even went so far as informing "Adam" in calm-yet-uncertain terms that he was not going to be part of his gang if Jerry wasn't invited also - receiving a wet willy* for his trouble.

*A loving one, we must assume.

Together, they were called the Not-Them, simply because people would generally laugh and say "troublemakers? Oh, not  _ them, _ they're very sweet children, if energetic."

And it was those two, Jerry and Brian, that Adam and Pepper set out to find.

* * *

Anathema watched Newt check and double-check prophecies, muttering under his breath, and noted that he had terribly nice lips. Anathema would quite like to kiss them.

But, at the same time, he also had a lovely voice which she could listen to for days upon days, saying such delightfully strange and blasphemous things that made her all excited, moreso even than the illustrations of St. Sebastian looking especially martyr-y and wearing very little in terms of clothing.

It was quite the conundrum, especially since something Sinful deep in her heart thought there were yet  _ other _ things that mouth could be occupied with, and she'd never done well with being spoilt for choice.*

*Mostly because she never had been, before. Mrs Potts made her decisions for her, usually, leaving only the choice between accepting and declining this, which wasn't really one at all.

"I think," Newt said, and Anathema's thoughts of very experimental and fascinating proceedings soundly derailed. "I have a vague idea. Maggie?"

He turned one of his most blinding smiles her way, and Maggie Tyler had to pause in brushing Shutzi's fur to place one hand on her heart and sigh softly.

(Anathema, for her part, couldn't even breathe for a second there.)

"This prophecy here… I think these three are the most relevant ones. Flyght, iron, and gunn's powder. You don't, perhaps, happen to have any sort of... airport around here? A hunting lodge. An iron quarry?"

"We do have a quarry…" Maggie said slowly. "...but I'm afraid it's chalk only."*

*Additionally, it had been out of use since the late 60s, and the last thing to come out of it was a handful of Doctor Who serials all pretending very hard and not terribly convincingly that it was a  _ different _ alien planet than the last one, honest, cross my hearts and hope to regenerate.

"And not much hunting around here, I don't think, my Ronald wrote to the  _ Tadfield Advertiser _ about animal cruelty and preservation of biotopes being more important than hunting traditions, didn't you, Ronald? He did-"

"What about the military airbase?" Anathema interjected.

Newt and Maggie both stared at her. So did Shutzi, and even R. P. Tyler might've shyly peered around the corner to observe her.

"It was marked on your computer, l-last night." Anathema fidgeted. "I. remembered?"

"Well, dear, aren't you clever!" Maggie beamed, while Newt was rather looking at her as rapt as some of the old ladies at church looked at Jesus on the cross.

Anathema flushed and ducked her head.

She could feel Newt's adoring gaze spell out  _ brilliant _ on her skin.

It was a very, very good feeling, actually.

* * *

"I hate Tadfield like this." Adam muttered, glaring at the frost-covered ground. "It's like  _ Frozen, _ but  _ bad." _

"Like what?" Pepper frowned delicately,* fiddling with Lady Rosebud.

*In opposite-world, the movie was called  _ Molten, _ and featured a young Prince with lava powers.

"Never min-" Adam started resignedly, but was interrupted.

"Jerry! Brian!" Pepper called out suddenly, rushing down the street with her skirts carefully pulled up. Adam followed. "You have to-"

She stopped in her tracks, Adam barrelling straight into her.

"That's not normal." She said, very softly, clutching the doll to her chest. "Is it? Adam?"

Adam swallowed.

"Nah, Pepper." He said. "S'not."

"Oh, gracious." Shadwell muttered faintly behind them.*

*As much as it had pained him to leave his post at the door and fond memories of campaigning behind, he absolutely understood that, now that Pepper had been found, correspondence with her parents was perfectly unnecessary and they were better advised to all move on together.

DON'T LOOK, SWEETHEART. Death said, and covered MORTIS's eyes.

While Pepper had simply been frozen in routine, this had clearly not sufficed for shutting Jerry up.*

*In fairness, few things did.

The hoarfrost was nowhere so thick as around the Old Oak by the playground, wickedly sharp spikes that were far too many inches too long for comfort; and encased in them, fused to the Oak's trunk, was Jerry.

Ice covered his mouth, his limbs, torso, keeping him entirely immobile save for his pleading, desperate eyes - and one hand, whose knuckles were raw from attempting to attract attention and get somebody,  _ anybody _ to help.

_ >knock-knock< _

"Who's there." Brian responded monotonously from where he was slumped on the nearby swing set, hands frost-fused to the ropes, rocking forth and back only ever so slightly.

_ >knock-knock!< _

"Who's there."

_ >KNOCK-KNOCK!< _

"Who's-"

And then Adam was stumbling forward already, grabbing Brian's shoulders, shaking him desperately, begging him to wake, no time for the finesse he had employed with Pepper.

And, miraculously, it appeared to work.

Brian blinked, the ice already fading from his lashes, hands dropping from the ropes.

"Who are-" he started, soft and confused.

"I…. M'your friend, Brian." Adam said, just a little heartbroken at not being recognised once more.

Brian nodded, visibly uncertain.

And then his eyes widened, and he was practically shoving Adam aside, racing to the Old Oak.

He was there just in time to catch Jerry, falling a considerable distance in a shower of icemelt.

"Jerry!" Pepper exclaimed, dropping to her knees beside them and acting very much like one of the young maidens swooning over an injured hero in those old movies real Pepper blamed the patriarchy for. "Jerry, are you alright?"

"No, you..." Jerry winced, but still bravely grinned up at them, some ice still stuck to his cheeks. "...y'have to say 'ouch who?', actual-"

He didn't get any further than that, both of them enveloping him in a tight group hug.

Watching their closeness, Adam felt... very strange, all of a sudden.

Empty inside.

Alone.

The three were all huddled together against the cold they were all now feeling properly, Shadwell tutting over them and Death muttering about how THEY'RE GOING TO BE JUST FINE, IT'S ALRIGHT, THEY'RE KIDS, I CAN'T KILL KIDS.

And Adam, Adam realised suddenly that he  _ didn't belong with them. _

He thought things would be alright if he just got back to Tadfield, found the Them, found Dog.

And now Tadfield was strange and cold and not home at all.

And now his friends were all odd and opposite, hugging each other and not recognising him, not caring about him at all.

At this rate, Dog was going to be All Wrong, too.

Adam hugged himself. Why couldn't he have his powers anymore? Make them all alright. Not be scared and skittish anymore. Fix the world. Why couldn't he do that anymore? Why did that  _ stupid Warlock boy- _

ARE YOU QUITE ALRIGHT, ADAM? Death asked beside him, not having been there until a moment ago but really always having been etcetera etcetera.

He looked  _ worried, _ and quite unhappy with himself over it.

"No." Adam sighed miserably. "I jus' want my friends back."

They stood silent for a while, watching Jerry excitedly gesticulating about how they had attempted to talk some sense into "Adam", and how he had gotten angry with them, and then the storm and ice had happened and "Adam" had run off but Jerry was pretty sure he knew where he'd gone because there was only the old airbase in that direction, and it had all been actually  _ dreadful, _ hadn't it, Brian May?, interspersed with the occasional calm addition of Brian's or prim scolding of Pepper's.

...KNOW WHAT, ADAM YOUNG, SO DO I. Death confessed quietly, fussing with the tip of MORTIS's tail and missing the other Horsepersons something fierce. SO DO I.

* * *

The Tadfield airbase had initially been of Russian make, actually, and all the signage was still in Cyrillic - though the general gist of GET OUT GET OUT NOW GET OUT FAST easily came across, language barrier or not.

However, at the end of the Hot War, political upset had caused quite a few assets go be juggled about by various international powers. Tadfield base had belonged to India for a few years, two months of Greenland, a day Swedish, kicked about Latin America for half a decade, and finally ending up in New Zealand hands, until one of their ambassadors had lost it to a US-American diplomat in a game of drunk darts.

The Tadfielders rather suspected it would change hands again 'ere the decade was out, but for now an American flag was proudly flying over the entirely dilapidated buildings, and bald-headed eagle stickers had been slapped onto anything the past owners might've left behind.*

*Including the Swedish leftenant-in-training who had grown very attached to the Tadfield milkman in the very brief time he had spent here with his battalion, and ultimately opted to stay behind and flirt his way into the milkman's pants, heart, and close family - in that order.

And it was this Russian-turned-Indian-turned-Greenlandic-turned-Swedish-turned-oh-you-get-the-point airbase that Anathema and Newt were observing from behind a nearby tree.

(Very close together, seeing as it was a comparatively narrow tree.

There might be other trees available, theoretically, broader trees.

They'd chosen this one, nonetheless.)

There was a guard at the gate, and he was carrying a very, very large gun that rather implied something was being compensated for.

"What do we do now? How will we get in?" Newt muttered, flipping frantically through pages. "Adultery, you unhelpful-"

He said a very rude and witchy word Anathema had never heard before, and…

A lightbulb went on in her head.

"By the Strength of God, of course." She said confidently, and stepped forward.

"Anath-" Newt started, reaching for her arm... but the guard on duty had already spotted her.

_ Too late. _

Newt, very quietly, said another rather rude and witchy word, before following after her nonetheless. If he needed to dramatically sacrifice his life by shielding her from bullets, then…

Well, then he would.*

*There were very few things he wouldn't do for this girl, Newt was only now realising, and he rather feared all these complicated feelings were going to make things very difficult down the line, when Anathema inevitably returned to her own life, and he to his.

Newt didn't like to think about that.

(A dramatic sacrifice would allow for death in her arms, at least... even though Newt really would prefer to stay alive, if  _ at all _ possible, thank you very much.)

* * *

"Which way, then?" Notziraphale narrowed his eyes, peering out at the hardly-discernible whiteness. "To your airbase."

"Er." Crowley said. "Lemme think."

A pointed huff that was all accusatory exasperation.

"Oi, s'not like I ever was here more than once." Crowley defended himself. "I think… down that way should do it. Or…"

He frowned out at what appeared to be a foggy orchard by the roadside. "I think the path winds about a bit. We could just cut across here, and-"

Notziraphale stopped Crowley with a hand on his arm, wrenching him back forcefully.

"Bloody  _ ow!" _ He groused. "It was only a  _ suggestion, _ Aziraphale, what the-"

Notziraphale wasn't looking at him.

Only at the fog, wavering and billowing and slithering dense and impenetrable through the trees ahead.

He reached over to a nearby apple tree, plucking one of the fruits, bright red under the white shell of hoarfrost.

Tossed it just at the edge of visible ground, where it made the characteristic sound of wet leaves being disturbed by a semi-heavy object; the only noise far and wide, and clear and echoing for it.

"What-" Crowley began. Really, if Notziraphale wanted to prove the existence of gravity, then Isaac Newton had beaten him to it by a few centuries.

Notziraphale shushed him, plucking another Apple and throwing this one just a little further, so that it disappeared into the billowing mist.

Not a sound. Not a whisper. Nothing.

Notziraphale and Crowley shared A Look.

Crowley picked up a branch of some length from underneath the tree, holding it out as far from his body as he could, dipping it into the fog.

When he pulled it back, it was half gone.

"Ngk." Crowley said, and swallowed hard.

"I don't think cutting across the fields is an option." Notziraphale muttered, throwing an uneasy look over his shoulder, where the fog appeared to slowly be acquiring a similar quality. "...nor, it appears, is going back."

Crowley sighed, tossing the remaining branch over his shoulder, where it never touched the ground - simply because there was no ground.

Only the Fog. Only the Nothingness. Only the White.

"You know, I think I preferred the last Apocalypse." Crowley complained, stuffing his hands in his pockets and making his way down the road. "Fish rain and the M25 burning and nuclear Armageddon, that's straightforward, at least! Good old End-of-the-World atmosphere. Yeah, I liked that, as much as you  _ can _ like the End Times. But this?"

He nodded his head at the world around them, which appeared to be becoming less and less by the second - and very disconcerningly so. "Ice and emptiness creeping up on you, bah. It's like something from a low-budget horror game re-labelling its pitiful rendering distance as  _ atmospheric." _

Notziraphale snorted a bitter little laugh at his side. "Yes, I  _ have _ been thinking that I've seen this movie before…"

"I'm sure this is all  _ symbolic, _ anyway." Crowley continued, grinning in that slightly desperate way where you were being funny because your only other option was naked fear. "Or there's some very obvious moral that people have been shouting at the screen since the first half."

"The fog is a socio-critical metaphor for the American Dream." Notziraphale said, attempting to be Very Serious and only managing to keep that up for precisely two seconds before cracking.

Crowley laughed along, and tried very hard not to think about how  _ Aziraphale _ would've said that with a perfectly straight face - and  _ meant _ it, too.*

*Crowley never would've thought that a day would come where he would desperately miss Aziraphale's extended rants on literature that always made him feel a little stupid; and yet, here he was.

Here he was...

* * *

Anathema took a deep breath, pressing her massive bible to her chest.

"Hello!" She chirped at the guard, wearing her very best missionary face which Mrs Potts had made her practise in the mirror countless times. "Can I come in?"

"Uh." Said the guard, flinching back, as people usually did when confronted with The Smile. "I'm sorry ma'am, no civilians on the premises ma'am."

"But I'm on a  _ Mission from God!" _ Anathema gestured at her bible, the  _ obviously _ firmly implied. "We are all civilians in God's Eye, Sergeant…" she squinted "...Deisenburger. Gosh, is that a real name?  _ Americans. _ Anyway, Sergeant, surely my coming has been foretold?"

"I have received no such correspondence at this instancement, ma'am." Deisenburger said uncertainly. He didn't particularly like feeling uncertain.* "Unless you carry official certirification by an authoritarity of General or higher, I can't let you in, sorry ma'am."

*If the Esteemed Reader is noting that the Esteemed Sergeant doesn't exactly seem very  _ opposite _ to them, well, he is An American after all, in one of the worse possible senses; and this particular interpretation of The American Spirit was something of a universal constant, as well.

Perhaps regrettably.

"So…" Deisenburger spotted Newt behind her, quite relieved to see a young man with a Good American Face that reminded him vaguely of some Hollywood star who shot a lot of guns - a man after his own heart, and probably easier to speak to than an x-chromosomed female woman girl. "Sir! Will you and ma'am please be vacatening the premiseries, sir?"

Newt shrugged in a rather dashing - no homo, Deisenburger quickly added mentally, even though nobody has asked or told - "not my call" way, vaguely gesturing towards the female lady woman.

"Oh, but Sergeant!" Anathema made her eyes go wide and serious. "Is there any Higher Authority than the Almighty?"

That gave Deisenburger pause.

In God They Trusted, after all, that was rather well-understood. So. Theoretically. If she really  _ was _ on a Holy Mission… and, well, she  _ did _ have a bible.

On the other hand, it was equally well-understood that even if Jesus Christ Himself In All His Glory descended before you and made His Will known, if it countermanded your standing orders, you kindly told Him to fudge off and referred to high command for further instructions.

"...I'll have to check that with my superior officer, ma'am." He finally settled on, turning back to the guard house and the phone within.

Newt swallowed, and manfully braced himself for running away very quickly, or aforementioned dramatic sacrifice to save her life.

"That's all I needed." Anathema said calmly.

And then, Newt watched in utter amazement as she, still very calmly, raised the bible - even with the missing pages still heavy enough to brain someone - and proceeded to do just that.

>THUD!<, was the sound the bible made on the back of Deisenburger's head.

"'Murica." Deisenburger said - a knee-jerk attempt at worthy last words - and collapsed.

_ "Oh."  _ Newt whimpered - very attractively, of course - and fell in love with her just a little bit more.

Anathema's Smile turned into an actual grin as she stood over the unconscious sergeant, bible clutched tight in her hands.

"I think, Newton," she very deliberately flirted - she had used God's Word to violently gain entry into a government facility, what was chastity against that, really - glancing coyly over at him, "it might actually be  _ me _ who's going to be a terrible influence on  _ you." _

"Oh, you magnificent thing." Newt breathed in response, and for just a moment, Anathema seriously hoped he might sweep her off her feet and Make A Woman* of her right over there in the ditch.

*Newt would vehemently disagree with this wording, since Anathema was already quite the woman in her own right if you asked him; and, if anything, she would be making _him_ something \- namely the happiest man on earth - so it really was doubly inappropriate.

He didn't, of course, instead Very Quickly walking past her towards the air base entrance.

Shame, Anathema thought as she followed after him.

She found she was rather fond of ditches.

* * *

R. P. Tyler had only just picked up the newspaper from the stoop, when the most startling apparition crawled up the street, roaring and coughing and sputtering and hardly more than a moving, very loud mound of snow.

"In the name of Our Lord, I  _ DEMAND _ you tell me the whereabouts of Ms Anathema Device!" The mound of snow snarled.

R. P. Tyler dropped the newspaper.

What he  _ wanted _ to say was something like  _ "excuse me", _ and then run back into the house and hide until Maggie had dealt with it.

Or  _ "please don't hurt me". _

Optionally, even,  _ "pardon me, Madame, but... aren't you cold?" _

But all of these options were rather impolite, R. P. Tyler suspected, and his dear Maggie did so insist upon manners.

"She. Er. The airbase." R. P. Tyler said weakly.

"Which way?" The mountain of Harley-Davidson-driving snow snapped more than asked.

R. P. Tyler pointed in the relevant direction, afraid to open his mouth in fear of something silly like  _ "I can't help but notice you're entirely covered in frozen water, is there a particular reason or…?" _ tumbling out.

"God shall reward you."

_ "By sending me more quasi-snowwomen on motorbikes!?" _

"Ta." R. P. Tyler muttered.

And with a roar, the peculiar visitor was already speeding off into the distance.

R. P. Tyler scratched his head.

Bent down to pick up the newspaper.

Probably all for the best he hadn't pointed out the all-covered-in-snow-and-likely-hypothermic matter.

After all, the woman  _ must know, _ mustn't she?

* * *

"I don't think we can simply walk in, Adam." Brian said, very reasonably. "It's prolly very well-guarded."

"I agree, actually." Jerry raised his hand. "Which is why-"

"We're  _ not _ doing a doorbell prank," Pepper interrupted coolly, and stopped where her counterpart would've tacked on something like  _ "because it's stupid, Stupid." _

I COULD GET US IN. Death said, but then remembered now difficult it was to get humans out the way if you didn't get them Out The Way, capitalised for significance and rather more permanent.

"Pardon, gentlemen, young lady?" Shadwell interjected politely. "I might've suggested my own services in the matter, seeing as I am not entirely without connections across the ocean, and surely might've wielded the name of a political acquaintance or two from the States that easily held enough weight to permit us entry…"

The Not-Them, Adam and Death all stared at him blankly.

"...only, there doesn't appear to be any need for it." Shadwell concluded, politely directing their attention towards the unattended gate and the slumped figure lying near it,* having been knocked unconscious barely half a minute past.

*I-IS HE DEAD?, Death started to say, and felt very, very stupid for it before he even got to the second word.

"Oh." Adam blinked.

"Well." Pepper agreed.

"Huh." Jerry said.

"...that's alright then," Brian finally concluded, and together, they made their way into Tadfield airbase.

* * *

Notziraphale and Crowley were the last of their motley crew to arrive at the airbase - though only by so little that they could just about glimpse Death's cloak in the fog ahead of them right as they were passing the first sign proclaiming "NO CIVILIANS" in Russian (and, scribbled underneath, in Hindi, Swedish, etc.) at them, and feeling miserably ignored.*

*The sign, not Notziraphale and Crowley.

It was an exemplary piece of signage after all, with one singular purpose in existence it had even become multilingual for. And now this? Simply racing past it? Oh, there was no respect for upstanding signs nowadays, none at all!

Since Newt and Anathema had already been spotted by Adam and were currently engaged in an exchange of introductions,* they quickly caught up to them.

*"Hi, I'm Jerry, do you want some gum, actually?"

"Oh, yes please!"

"...Anathema, trust me,  _ don't." _

"Well, this should prove that we're all on the right track, at leas-" Crowley began to mutter, but something among what Shadwell and Newt were quietly conferring about caught his attention like those little plant things with the hooks that were the basis for Velcro and never let go once they'd latched onto something even vaguely fuzzy.

"...what's that about Warlock?"

"Uh-" Adam began.

"Lord!" He was instantly interrupted, three vaguely familiar* figures rushing over to them across the tarmac.

*Crowley was  _ quite _ sure that Pollution's crown had never been made of white lilies that very nearly seemed to have grown from their hair; same for the olive twigs on War's head, and the honeycombs lazily dripping at Famine's temples. So  _ this  _ was what Death had meant with the other three of the Four being different.

MY FRIENDS!* Death exclaimed, and MORTIS on his shoulder mewed happily. WHAT ARE YOU-

*The word held a very different weight to him now than it ever had before this entire blasted affair.

Before he could say another word, the three had enveloped him in a group hug.

OH, Death said, and hugging still felt like a revelation, even if the huggers sobbed against the huggee's ribcage that they were  _ "sorry Lord, so sorry, we failed, we couldn't do it, couldn't stop it, He Hath Risen…" _

  
  
  


And that was all the warning they got; for then, the Antichrist appeared in their midst, and the End was upon them.

* * *

_ "So." Crawly appeared on the roof behind Aziraphale with no warning whatsoever; and yet he never so much as flinched. His pride would never allow it. _

_ "So." Aziraphale echoed. _

_ In the garden below them, The Boy was idly tossing a tennis ball from hand to hand. No Hellhound was anywhere to be seen. _

_ It was a beautiful day; only one of many yet to come. _

_ "You actually did it." _

_ "Oh yes." Aziraphale should gloat, perhaps. Mock. But his heart still felt light and fragile after the moments of existential terror when the Hellhound had come padding up to his young charge, and… it was quite peculiar. He felt almost raw. Untethered. _

_ As if this was a new world. _

_ A new chance. _

_ "Crawly-" he began. _

_ He got no further. _

_ A wicked knife inscribed with occult symbols flashed through the air; Aziraphale stopped it on reflex alone; and thirty minutes, half a pint of celestial blood, and one shag - as earth-shattering as usual - later, they had already fallen back into old-familiar patterns. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APOCALYPSE TIME!  
> Chances are I'll get the next chapter out in the next 6, 8, hours, too, I don't anticipate it ending up *that* long. (She says, getting ready to eat her words later.)
> 
> Again, happy Valentine's Day - now properly! - and thank you always for sticking with this story as I scramble to cobble chapters together before the deadline, and all your wonderful comments!  
> ^-^ <3


	17. The Lost And The Unloved Babe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhhhhhhh God I did not sleep, I did not sleep at all. *6 hours, posted this evening, short chapter, HAH.*   
> That crunching sound is me chewing on my words, in case you were wondering.
> 
> BUT, I do ultimately quite like this chapter, and hope it's all the Feels you were hoping for! It certainly made me cry in bits, but that might just be the sleep deprivation.  
> <3

The first thing Crowley's silly little heart did upon seeing Warlock Dowling again was to prove to him that no matter what Notziraphale had done to it last night, there were still parts of it intact enough to break.

He hadn't seen the boy in over a year, this child he had reared from infancy, witnessing his every mood, his every doubt, his first steps, first words, first laugh. Had done his best to forget he had ever cared, had never even checked up on him -  _ the wrong boy,  _ after all, inconsequential, superfluous, unnecessary and unimportant,  _ just a stupid human kid _ \- and yet…

And yet, he whispered  _ "Warlock…", _ all worried and heartbroken - as if he had any right to care  _ now _ \- wanting nothing more than wrap him up in his arms and take all his worries off his shoulders.

Warlock was floating at least four metres off the ground, the Whiteness twirling and curling around him as the centre of the storm, eyes black pools of darkness.

He looked awful, pale and sweaty and terrified, and much too powerful than he knew what to do with; shaking head to toe, with patches of hoarfrost continuously crawling over his limbs in shifting patterns of melting and freezing and melting again.

There was a strange tension to him, too; a twisted tightness completely unrelated to muscles or tendons or anything of the sort, but on a more spiritual level, as if there was  _ More _ to him than the eye could properly perceive, and said  _ More _ was just a size or two too big for him, spilling out at the seams and bulging the walls of his soul outward.

It looked painful - and by the expression on his face, it  _ was. _

(His eyes slid over Crowley without even a flicker of recognition. It shouldn't hurt, leaving overnight and never checking up for over a year and all; but  _ Satan, it did.) _

**I told you to leave me alone!** Warlock  _ roared, _ in a way no human being should ever be able to speak, his wide, empty eyes, furious even in their dead-ness, focused on the Not-Them.  **WHY CAN'T YOU ALL JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!?**

"BECAUSE YOU'RE ENDIN' THE WORLD, STUPID!" Adam shouted back, and, despite feeling like he might faint from pure, undiluted fear, stepped forward. "And m'not letting you! Me an' Pepper an' Jerry an' Brian an' everyone else, we want you to  _ stop it!" _

**I am.** Warlock said, low and dangerous, and more of the world disappeared into the Whiteness, sharp gusts of wind created by air rushing outwards into the vacuum of Nothing, pulling and tugging at the assorted humanoid beings, threatening to simply throw them into the hungry fog.  **I AM stopping it.**

He raised his hands, trembling so hard the fingers seemed to blur and distort.

**I just wanna be left alone. Not have this nightmare anymore, where everybody is a dirty liar and mean to me!**

"You can't end the world jus' because you want people to not be botherin' you!" Adam snapped. "Tha's not how it works, an' you better listen to me, 'cos I've done everythin' you're doin' before, an' I made the right decision cos I'm no' STUPID like you!"

**I'm NOT stupid either!**

"You are, actually!" Jerry corrected cheerfully. "Right, Brian Braddock?"

"Arguably." Brian confirmed.

"Lads, perhaps you oughtn't…" Shadwell attempted, nervously noting how the fog around Warlock churned and trembled.

"It's setting a terrible example for our children." Pepper added.

"Warlock, right?" Newt smiled stunningly, and only a hint worriedly. "Let's just… talk about this calmly, yes?"

STOP CRYING, FAM- PLENTY, IT'S QUITE… OH, HAVE YOU MET MORTIS, BY THE BY? THIS IS MORTIS.

Death held out MORTIS.

SHE IS OBJECTIVELY THE CUTEST AND MOST IMPORTANT THING IN ALL OF EXISTENCE. ISN'T SHE?

"Is he possessed?" Anathema said uncertainly. "Because I have an exorcism kit…"

"Stop." Crowley blanched, recognising that tilt of the head, the clenched fists, the trembling lower lip. "All of you,  _ stop talking! _ You're frightening him, he's going to-"

"YOU'RE THE STUPIDEST STUPIDFACE IN THE HISTORY OF STUPID!" Adam shouted, as loud as he could, evidently not having heard Crowley, or, given his current tendency towards obedience, he surely would've demurred instantly.

"Oh dear." Notziraphale muttered, who, for his part,  _ had _ heard, and was now elbowing his way through the group as quickly as he could. "Don't-"

"And that," Adam pulled the words from the depths of his own loneliness and frustration, bracing himself for voicing the worst thing he could imagine throwing at another person. "And  _ that _ is why NOBODY LIKES YOU!"

Just like it would for any other twelve-year-old, this statement hit its intended mark with immense force, and remained painfully lodged there.

**...shut up. Shut up!** Warlock shook his head, hands coming up to cover his ears.  **Shut up shut up shutupshutupSHUTUP-**

His eyes flashed open, glowing red darkness.

**Ripper.** He said, very calmly.  **_Make him shut up._ **

  
  
  


And from the depths of the Nothing, the Hellhound jumped.

* * *

Ripper had been having a terrible few days so far.

Not that he didn't adore His Master. He did. It was His Master, after all.

But… the things His Master was doing… they didn't seem quite right to Ripper. He was here to bite whoever harmed His Master, be a Bad Boy, but…

Nobody harmed him, really.

It was His Master who harmed  _ them, _ and Ripper had the sinking feeling somewhere in his shriveled, pitch-and-tar Hellhound heart that he was aligning himself with the wrong side of history.

If there was even going to BE a history after today. His Master seemed quite set on there not being one, and once more, Ripper didn't feel  _ entirely _ on-board with that.

But now, at last, a direct attacker, hurtling mean, unfounded words at His poor, poor Master. He deserved Ripper tearing his soul apart into little shreds, and the shreds into even littler shreds, and those shreds into… you get the point. Ripper was going to be thorough.

He bounded up to him in two great leaps, and before any of the other pitiful creatures could stop him, he already had one paw firm on that breakable little ribcage.

Ripper bared his fangs with a deep, rumbling growl, snarling the sort of snarl he was going to bury deep in the boy's vulnerable throat, when…

"Dog." The boy said, softly.

Ripper paused.

There was… something. A thought at the outskirts of Ripper's conscious, half-formed but evading him.

"Hey, Dog." The boy wasn't afraid of him, as all living things ought be. No, he seemed… happy, to see him. (A little melancholy, perhaps, but Ripper's emotional intelligence wasn't really equipped to recognise  _ melancholy _ reliably.)

Ripper's tail twitched, as if it would quite like to be wagged.

A soft little hand came up, touching the side of Ripper's snout. "Good Boy."

_ Good Boy. _ Ripper liked the sound of that. Especially in the boy's voice, warm and genuinely praising. He  _ felt _ Good, hearing it said like that.

Ripper thought about tearing the words out of the boy's throat, never to be spoken like that again; and it made something deep in his chest hurt terribly, prompting a pitiful little whine.

**Kill him!** His Master commanded behind him, with the urgent, excited note of somebody who had never seen someone die, or even really  _ thought _ about what it would mean to take a life, and was going to regret it dearly.

Ripper looked over his shoulder at His Master brimming with Hell's familiar power, His Master who he was hard-wired to love and obey, who was just a little  _ off _ in a way he couldn't put his paw on.

Then he looked down, at the boy who  _ felt right. _ Looked right, smelled right - which was a deciding factor to a hound, of course - and called him  _ Good Boy _ in a voice that would make a thousand tails wag.

Ripper bent down, ignoring the panicked shouts, the attempted smiting utterly failing to even unsettle him, even the three little children trying to throw themselves at him and pull him off, opening his maw and…

...lovingly licking the boy's face.

"D-dog!" The boy laughed, and Ripper felt like he could defeat an army of mean ginger cats with a single imperious flick of his paw, slobbering a bit more enthusiastically.

**What are you doing!? You were meant to DO AS I SAY!**

Ripper knew exactly what he was doing.

He was choosing a side to make his stand on, and felt considerably better about his decision already.

Calmly, he stepped off of the boy's chest, and firmly planted himself in front of him, and all the other little humanlings.

"Good Dog." The boy said softly, one warm hand against his flank, and Ripper thought that since he never wanted to be called anything else ever again, anyway, that might as well be his name now.

**Fine. Fine! I don't need you! Leave, I don't care!** Warlock said, looking miserable and abandoned and like somebody who still cared very much, despite this being only the latest of many abandonments.  **I DON'T CARE AT ALL!**

(Wind picking up, tugging at their clothes.)

**You don't like me? Well, I, I don't like you, either! And you'll be SORRY when I've stopped it all!**

(Wind strengthening, to the point that the children had to cling to GoodDog's fur to prevent themselves from being picked up and blown away, and the adults were anxiously glancing around for something to hold on to themselves.*

*Anathema and Newt were already as good as fused together, and Notziraphale and Crowley were carefully not meeting each other's eyes.)

**YOU'LL BE SORRY!**

("Warlo-" Crowley tried, but Notziraphale clamped a hand over his mouth, hissing  _ "Don't be a fool and attract his attention!" _ into his ear.)

A crack as if of lighting, but nothing of the sort visible; and a shockwave threw them all off their feet, wind now howling furiously.

**_YOU'LL BE SORRY!_ ** Warlock sobbed, and strange things were happening to his body,  _ something _ distorting the shape of his limbs, or maybe the air around him.  **_YOU'LL ALL BE SORRY!!!_ **

And he plunged his shaking, distorted hands into the fabric of reality, and  _ pulled. _

  
  
  


The effect was instantaneous. Like tugging at a loose thread in a piece of fabric, existence seemed to suddenly twist and go wonky with Warlock at the centre, that unnatural strain so inherent in his being transferred over into all of reality.

Drawn tight, and tighter still…

… _ and something would need to give, sooner or later. _

* * *

("Newton?" Anathema shouted over the wailing and screaming of reality ripping itself apart. "Are we… are we going to die?"

Newt looked down at her as if it would kill him to answer, and only pulled her tighter into his arms, more of an embrace than a securing hold now, burying his face in her hair.

"Oh." Anathema said softly into his shoulder.

Ahead of them, Shadwell attempted to struggle to his feet, only to be thrown backwards by the raging tempest, only barely saving himself from the Whiteness by grasping for a bit of broken fence.

"But, I… I don't want to go to Heaven yet!" She said, starting soft but growing louder with every word. "Never mind that, that I have no guarantee if there is life after death anyway, not really, I don't WANT to go there yet! I've so much, so much that I still wanted…"

Anathema gasped for breath, more like a sob.

"I've never… all my life, I've done nothing of what I  _ really _ want to do, nothing! What have I ever done, really? I've never travelled, this is the furthest I've ever gotten out of London- I've never seen the sea, the, the Taj Mahal, the Grand Canyon,  _ Paris,  _ I always wanted… God, oh God, I've never eaten licorice. I've never told Mrs Potts that she can  _ stuff it,  _ the old hag! I've never worn a mini skirt, never been arrested, never eaten Thai food, and I've never…"

She pulled back a little, looking up at Newt, lovely, handsome, sweet Newt, with tears in her eyes.

"I've never even  _ kissed _ anyone." She confessed quietly, and for just a moment, the world stood still.

Newt swallowed.

"Anathema," he said hoarsely, mentally screaming at himself to  _ keep it together,  _ that she was only attracted to him through pure circumstance, that he wasn't going to take advantage of that, no matter what Adultery said…

_ "OH, FER HECATE'S SAKE!"  _ Shadwell, quite literally,  _ snapped. _

Enough. Was. Enough. Not even unending patience and utmost decorum could bear such  _ utter _ foolishness, and for just a moment, MP Shadwell stepped back, and the angry young Scotsman he had been before his formal education kicked in proper took his place.

_ "Lad, she LUVS ye, and ye 'er, so dinnae be a BLOODY fool and KISS 'er!" _

Newt blinked.

Anathema blinked.

They blinked at each other.

And then… then they kissed, for what was definitely the first and probably the last time.

It was wonderful.

What was left of the earth moved for everybody.)

* * *

  
  
NO. Death said, soft and horrified. NO!

_ Not this. No, not this. Please, not this. _

It was starting already, the Nothing seeping into this plane, swallowing what it could, and time…

...time was slowing.

Twisted to a stop by the raw power of the Antichrist, more than any living creature should ever have,  _ he had told Her, hadn't he, foolish that Plan of Hers, dangerous, and She'd smiled and called it "Ineffable", the bloody old fool... _

The children, clutching at each other, the Hellhound curled protectively around them - barely moving, barely  _ being, _ the Young boy still the most conscious, sluggishly looking around, the first etchings of panic in the corner of his eyes…

The young couple, already frozen in a kiss that would never end.

Death's own robes barely moving, even in the roaring tempest.

The Antichrist was making a Mistake that might end up being entirely un-undoable, and Death was suddenly terrified he might not be able to stop him.

(For stop him he had to. This was no longer a silly, trivial matter between humans and celestials, not even a problem of reverse-ness and fixing the selfsame. This was  _ bigger, _ now, and the stakes had risen into the unimaginable.) 

Death whirled around, holding MORTIS out to the three Horsepersons.

LISTEN. LISTEN TO ME. TAKE HER. Death rasped, sounding very hoarse, and almost afraid. AND GO.

"My Lord…" Peace began, soft and placatingly.

He didn't let her finish, already pushing the wriggling kitten into her arms.  KEEP HER SAFE, KEEP HER FED, GO!

MORTIS mewed wretchedly, twisting and fighting and refusing to calm.

Peace looked from the cat to Death, and back again.

And finally nodded.

She reached out, touching Plenty's shoulder, and he, too, inclined his head.

THANK YOU . Death said, and meant it. HURRY. I WILL TAKE CARE OF THIS… OR, AT WORST, BUY YOU TIME.

"What-!?" Purity frowned, turning back. "Lord, you are  _ Death, _ how would-"

HE IS  _ STOPPING _ IT ALL, PURITY, MY FRIEND. Death explained urgently. THERE WILL BE NO TIME. NO PROGRESS. NO GROWTH, AND NO ENTROPY, AND NO… NO ME. I AM CREATION'S SHADOW; AND WITHOUT CREATION, I AM NOTHING.

"Then we can't leave you behind!" Purity grabbed his wristbones, looking to the other two for support. "Can we? You'll need all the help you can-"

DO NOT DISOBEY! Death almost-threatened, but then softened. LOOK. I CARE LITTLE FOR MYSELF, MY EXISTENCE IS… INCONSEQUENTIAL, IN THIS. BUT I MUST KNOW  _ HER _ SAFE, AND SO I ENTRUST HER TO YOU. YOU WILL BE GOOD TO HER, YES? ALL THREE OF YOU.

"But… Lord, let one of us at least fight with-"

Death very gently pried their hand from his wrist.

THIS IS EXISTENCE'S LAST STAND AGAINST THE TRUE END OF ALL. He said, very seriously. I'M AFRAID THIS IS BETWEEN ME AND HIM ALONE.

Purity's expression implied that they didn't believe a word he said, but couldntnthink of a good counterargument.

GOODBYE FRIENDS. Death said with a smile. (Not that he had any other options.) AND… GOODBYE, MORTIS.

He turned.

MORTIS mewed, Famine gently shushing her.

Death stepped towards Warlock, the center of the storm.

MORTIS meowed louder, more pitiful; the sound of a little body struggling in a tight grip.

Death ignored it forcefully.

Another meow, more and more desperate, frantic scrabbling of clawed paws.

Death spread wings of night, and chanted  _ don't look back don't look back _ in his skull.

MORTIS cried, a helpless little cat scream; and Death very nearly turned, half stepping back to her…

But the other Three were gone already, and MORTIS's cries with them.

RIGHT. Death said, softly and resolute.

And then there was a scythe in Death's hands that had not been there before, except, of course, it had always been.

This scythe was the axis on which the universe revolved; blade made from the molten core of ice stars, and its handle from the darkness between them.

He swept it around in a wide arc, and the Whiteness parted easily before it like the thinnest of gossamer veils.

Time to make a last, desperate stand, then.

* * *

"Maggie?" R. P. Tyler asked softly.

The B&B was strangely pale, faded, and so quiet. Oh so quiet.

"Shutzi?"

Nothing. Mist creeping in under the windows, cold and white and  _ hungry. _

He felt empty, all of a sudden, empty and afraid. The telephone, the police,  _ someone… _

But there was no police.

There was no telephone.

And, when he really thought about it…

...there was no _ him _ anymore, either.

* * *

WARLOCK DOWLING! Death pointed one bony finger at him, his night-black cloak stark against the Emptiness. THIS IS NOT THINE TO BREAK. LEAVE THY FINGERS FROM WHAT IS BEYOND YOUR KEN!

But Warlock had gone too far already, buried up to his elbows in the innards of the universe, ripping and tearing aimlessly, and words did no longer reach him in his desperation.

Death straightened his spine.

(He allowed himself, for just a moment, to think of hugs that made him feel alive.

Think of the feel of snow-sodden fur against his fingerbones, the first time MORTIS had purred at him, her raspy little tongue as it licked at his cheekbones.

He was doing it for all of them, of course.

These children, his friends, all of humanity and Heallven, too.

But, most of all, he was doing it for  _ her.) _

Death raised his scythe high above his head.

Eyesockets locked with pitch-black eyes, both of them less than, no longer, beyond human; currently the two most powerful beings in the universe.

And Death brought the scythe down, burying the blade in the ground, in the underlying fabric of the universe, pinning it in place and holding on for dear existence.

It was a game of tug-o'-war at its core, Death holding fast on one side, Warlock tearing and ripping and pulling with blind fury and desperation on the other, neither of them ready to give an inch.

A game of tug-o'-war for the survival of the universe.

A game of tug-o'-war Death was  _ losing. _

And Warlock, or whatever Warlock was quickly becoming, could  _ tell. _

His face pulled into a terrible grimace, half laugh and half something altogether else, and he reached, almost calmly, for the thread that was Death in the Fabric of All, twirled it around his fingers once or twice…

_ NO- _ Death gasped.

..and began mercilessly tugging.

* * *

_ Uriel, Sandalphon, Michael, Ligur, Hastur and Dagon were huddled together, watching the White creep ever closer and closer, swallowing the world around them. _

_ "It's too late." Michael whispered, her voice swallowed instantly by the hungry fog. "The Four have failed." _

_ Uriel, Sandalphon, Ligur and Hastur nodded in resigned agreement. _

_ "I-it's been an honour to make this last stand with you, gentlecelestials." She continued, smiling sadly. "Uriel, Sandalphon, Ligur… we have served Earth well. May we meet again on a better occasion." _

_ Uriel and Sandalphon smiled back at Michael, tremulous and afraid. _

_ "...wait," Sandalphon fidgeted, grabbing Uriel's arm just a hint too tightly, anxiously scanning the encroaching Whiteness. "Where did-" _

_ And then Uriel stood alone. _

_ She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, took a deep, shuddering breath, and closed her eyes. _

_ A single tear slid out from between her lids… _

_...and by the time it hit the last remaining bit of ground, there was nothing. _

_ Only the White. _

* * *

The scythe was dull, now. Beaten brass, bent and as good as useless, wobbling precariously on its handle, no more than a gnarled, termite-ridden branch.

And still Death did not let go, falling to his knees before it and strengthening his grip

And around them, the universe was being pulled apart by the seams.

* * *

Crowley could  _ feel _ it.

A numbness in his very soul. A slowing. Not physically painful, but still terrible as his being protested its slow, torturous falling-asleep, never to wake again.

He dropped to his knees, fog creeping up his ankles.

He let it. Hardly mattered now.

"Crowley!" Notziraphale grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, eyes wide and desperate. Their blue looked strangely pale now, and was only ever growing paler as reality faded away around them. "Crowley, we have to-"

"It's over, Aziraphale." Crowley said, feeling a little like he was reciting old-familiar lines. The tarmac under his knees was only a faint, vague impression of a sensation by now, and he was rather certain that the only reason he still had feet was because he firmly and stubbornly believed he did. "Was… was nice knowing you. After you stopped trying to kill me, that is."*

*Crowley might, perhaps, still be a little bit salty about that. Just a hint. Teensy bit.

"Oh no you don't!" Notziraphale bit out, giving him another shake. "Absolutely NOT, we cannot give up  _ now, _ Crawly!"

_ "Crowley," _ Crowley nearly corrected; but, if he was entirely honest, he was pretending that the angel in front of him was a good deal more Aziraphale and substantially less Not, himself, so he said nothing and let Notziraphale just… have this.

"Do something! Or..." Notziraphale pleaded, voice cracking, and Crowley nearly laughed. Some things truly didn't change.  _ "Or you'll never hear the end of it!" _

That was his cue.

"Anything for you, angel." Crowley said wryly, and spread his arms, glanced up to the Heavens,  _ God, don't tell me I'm responsible for fixing your mistakes in every reality, _ twisting his fingers into time and…

And time, brittle and weak, gave way underneath his fingers, wrenched back into Warlock's control easily.

"Oh. Oh no." Crowley said quietly.

"...er. Anything within my capabilities?" He corrected himself awkwardly.

Notziraphale's murderous glare indicated that "well, at least you tried" wasn't quite going to cut it in this case.

* * *

He couldn't hold on any longer.

He couldn't.

It was over.

The old wood was already crumbling away under his fingertips, and Death was gasping and panting under the strain of keeping a tight grip on it, and still, still losing.

His cloak hung heavy and useless around him, no more than scratchy wool, and the wings at his back felt numb and broken.

WARLOCK! He called, and there was none of the previous authority to it. No, Death was  _ begging _ now. DO NOT- CHILD, STOP THIS. PLEASE. YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU ARE MEDDLING WITH,  _ PLEASE- _

Another tug.

The tendons in Death's hands screamed,  _ since when did he have- _ and one of them spasmed, dropping off the scythe's handle and scraping its pad raw and bloody on the tarmac.

_ Bloody. No. No! _

_ STOP!  _ Death begged. YOU CANNOT! YOU MUST NOT, PLEASE, PLEASE DO not do this to me, Warlock _ don't-" _

He gasped.

Coughed up blood, wetness splattering over his lips.

_ (Warlock's dead eyes were now locked with wide, pleading ones the same colour as the faint glow that had resided in the depths of Death's eyesockets once.) _

It was  _ over. _

_ "Mortis," _ the-being-that-was-no-longer-Death breathed,  _ breathed;  _ and then, his grip fell away from the scythe, and Death collapsed into a miserable heap of moth-eaten roughspun wool.

Only his hand -  _ a real hand, bones, meat, tendons, skin and blood _ \- stuck out from under his cloak, fingers still loosely curled around an invisible handle - or, perhaps, moulded over the fragile little body of a kitten.

* * *

"Oh,  _ God." _ Notziraphale said softly, as they both watched Death fall. "Oh, God help us."

"She won't." Crowley muttered. "Trust me."

"What do we do?" Notziraphale ran one hand through his hair, a tell of his anxiety Crowley should probably be flattered he was trusted enough to see."

"Die?" Crowley suggested.

"This isn't  _ funny,  _ Crowley!"

"It wasn't meant to be."

Notziraphale scoffed, harsh and impatient. "Will you stop talking like THAT, and help-"

"There's no point, you idiot!" Crowley snapped. "Don't you get it!? Warlock isn't listening, he's not listening to anyone when he's in such a state, I should know, I was his Nanny  _ for bloody years, _ go and save yourself before it's too-"

"What did you say!?" Notziraphale cut in sharply.

"Go and save-"

"You were HIS NANNY!"

"Which makes no difference, he never-"

"Oh, Crowley," Notziraphale laughed, delirious with relief. "Crowley, you damn fool!"

And then, without preamble, Notziraphale kissed him.

It wasn't a romantic kiss, nothing of the sort, merely joy given form; and yet, it took Crowley's breath away.

"But,  _ affected by opposite-world,  _ as he  _ must _ be, Adam was, after all - Warlock WILL listen!"

Crowley blinked.

A penny muttered an annoyed "about time" and finally let itself be dropped.

Then Crowley scrambled to his barely-responsive feet, snapping his fingers as he went, skirts materialising around him, hair arranging itself beneath a brand-new hat, lips reddening of their own volition…

Nanny Ashtoreth stood in the middle of the Storm At The End Of Things,  _ daring _ the wind to rip even one hair out of place; and she was  _ furious. _

"WARLOCK THADDEUS DOWLING!" She bellowed, stalking resolutely forward. "WILL YOU GET DOWN FROM THERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!"

Warlock whipped around mid-air, staring at her with blackened eyes.

**...Nanny?** He breathed.

"Oh, don't you  _ dare _ use that tone on me, laddy!" Ashtoreth stemmed her fist into her side, wagging a finger at him. "Well, Warlock?"

"Nanny!" Warlock gasped, as if he couldn't believe his eyes - normal, human eyes again, and wet with tears. "You…"

"What did I tell you about Ending the World? Bad manners, Warlock, very bad!"

"I… I'm sorry."

The violent storm died down as quick as it had risen, and reality shuddered with relief, gradually smoothing out and knitting itself back together without even the slightest trace of upset.

It was resilient that way.

"But, Nanny…" He was looking at her both hurt and afraid and lost, and, at the same time as if she was a Divine apparition;  _ and it made Crowley's skin crawl, to be looked at the way he might look at God. _ "W-why did you leave me?"

"Well, I-" Ashtoreth started.

And faltered.

"Why did you leave" was the easy question.

_ "Why did you stay away" _ was impossible to explain.

"...I am here now, my dear." She finally said, tone softened into a gentle Scottish lilt, and Warlock made an almost desperate sound when she spread her arms, inviting him into a hug the way she always had when he'd been small.

Warlock dropped into her arms like a stone and clung to her like a limpet, shaking with terror and pain and cold, and  _ oh, Crowley loved him so, like a son of his own  _ Ashtoreth held him close, running a gentle hand through his frost-tipped hair and whispering loving nonsense to him as he cried against her shoulder.

So they knelt together on the last little bit of tarmac that remained of existence; and the fog receded at last, revealing the airbase, the woods, the fields beyond, and a bright, magnificent sun in the sky above.

* * *

Death pushed himself up into a sitting position, shaken to his core.

He raised his hand to eye level, and wasn't sure whether he felt relief upon finding that he no longer had eyes, nor something that could be called a hand, technically.

There was only old, sun-bleached bone under a cloak of midnight, and it was for the best that way.

"Mew!"

"M-moRTIS! Death forced out, the only thing that mattered in all the world; and met the kitten racing across the tarmac halfway.

He plucked her up and pressed a kiss - lip-less, a touch of teeth and bone - to her forehead.

OH, MY DARLING. YOU'RE ALRIGHT, YOU'RE SAFE.

Peace, Plenty and Purity were there, at his periphery, watching him warmly; and just to know them there made him feel soft and fuzzy inside.

Death held his cat as tightly as he dared, with her fragile little bones, and felt as close to  _ alive _ as he ever would - and at the same time, was infinitely grateful that he wasn't  _ mortal. _

At least, not anymore.

* * *

Suddenly, a roar in the distance.

A shout of "Ma'am-! Oh, goshdarnit...", the roar growing louder.

A magnificent Harley Davidson screeched to a halt in front of their little group, and the mound of snow who appeared to have been driving it stepped off, ice dripping off her to reveal...

"AND-ALL-THE-MERCIES-ABOVE DEVICE!" Mrs Potts thundered, absolutely scandalized. "YOU WILL STEP AWAY FROM THAT  _ MAN  _ THIS VERY SECOND, OR  _ SO HELP YOU GOD-" _

Anathema, who had been kissing Newt again - or perhaps still - pulled back for a second.

"-FIFTY HAIL MARY'S - A HUNDRED! AND YOU BETTER NOT BE IN TROUBLE, YOU HEAR ME, YOUNG LADY!? WHAT WOULD YOUR PARENTS SAY? OR THE HOLY FATHER? ARE YOU  _ ASHAMED _ OF YOURSELF GIRL, I DO HOPE YOU ARE!"*

*At this point, even Death would frown and ask IF SHE DIDN'T THINK IT WAS TIME TO GIVE THE CAPSLOCK KEY SOME REST, HMM?

The young man who had been Spoiling her frowned sharply, opening his mouth… but Anathema's hand on his chest stopped him.

Even though Mrs Potts was very obviously directing the full force of her Disapproval at her, she seemed rather unfazed, meeting her glare confidently, her jaw set into something Mrs Potts just  _ knew _ spelled Disobedience.

Anathema took a deep breath.

"Oh, _fuck_ _off,"_ she said, fiercely.

And with that firmly established, she went right back to snogging Newt with all she had.

  
  
  


Mrs Potts, needless to say, was just about ready to explode.

There it was. All her fears made reality, all her convictions confirmed; the Devil had taken her young charge, and she was Appalled.

She opened her mouth very wide, readying herself for an extremely respectable tirade.

"Pardon me, Madame…" A cultured, polite voice interrupted her. "MP Ephraim Hemlock Shadwell, at yourself. I beg that you forgive my forwardness, only... I find myself quite enraptured by your beauty, to be frank, and was wondering, if we might, perhaps, have some tea-"

This, or something of its like, the Esteemed Reader might well suspect correctly, had never happened to Mrs Potts before, being addressed so boldly, out in the open, by a  _ man _ voicing his designs on her!

It was terribly, terribly scandalous. Mrs Potts had never been So Appalled.

_ (She loved it.) _

"And what do  _ you _ think you are doing, Mister!" She snapped almost gleefully, forgetting entirely about the two young people still liplocking quite enthusiastically behind her.*

*Some among the Esteemed Readers might think MP Shadwell a nobler, more selfless man than we, and assume the entire affair merely serves as a distraction.

We may assure them, however, that Shadwell did indeed have ulterior motives in the matter, mostly an instant attraction he felt towards the furiously fanatic woman shouting about propriety, the likes of which he couldn't recall even from his first Walpurgis Night Feast.

"Plainly propositioning respectable women in the street, calling them  _ Madame - _ what do you think I am,  _ SOME JEZEBEL!? _ \- absolutely unacceptable. UNACCEPTABLE!"

"My." Shadwell said softly, and a bit in awe. "Do tell me more, Madame."

Mrs Potts proceeded with great care and investment on her part to chew him up and spit him out in the following five minutes; and Shadwell seemed nothing short of amazed by it.

* * *

Notziraphale was watching Nanny Ashtoreth hold Warlock, comforting him, hushing him, so loving and wonderful and  _ kind. _

The expression on his face was one of revelation. An epiphany, if you will. An idea.

A vague sort of hope, even.

He took a step forward-

Something under his left shoe crumbled.

Notziraphale glanced down.

The  _ Rude Ande Pedantyk Prophecies  _ lay on the ground, clearly dropped by Newt in favour of occupying his hands with the Device girl.

He leaned down, picked it up.

The covers had cracked under his sole, the book ruined. Shame, there would've been buyers for it.*

*The lowest offer he had ever received for this particular publication was already nothing short of astronomical; if he auctioned it off, he might get enough out of it to buy a small country, the crown jewels, or a three-rooms-plus-kitchen flat in central London, maybe, if he also took out a loan.

And as he inspected it, a piece of paper slipped out of the broken cover, nearly fluttering to the ground if not for his excellent reflexes.

Notziraphale read it.

That expression of hope faded from his eyes, replaced with a quiet, resigned sadness.

He glanced once more at Ashtoreth and Warlock, soft longing and a good helping of bitterness in his eyes.

And then he stuffed Adultery Pulsifer's final prophecy deep into his pocket, as if that would allow him to forget it had ever existed.

* * *

Meanwhile Adam and the Not-Them were laughing, playing with GoodDog; in a B&B, Maggie Tyler asked her Roland who he was trying to call, and he was unable to answer; somewhere in an office building, Beelzebub and Gabriel were standing only because they were holding each other up, weak with exhaustion and overwhelming relief, announcing the continuation of existence over the Heallven radio network; and in the countryside, a handful of angels and demons were crying and hugging each other next to a brave little roadblock;

And it was a beautiful, beautiful late summer's day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Apocalypse arc is DONE!!!  
> Now only the opposite-ness to wrap up. Epilogues to epilogue.  
> Within the next 16 hours.  
> OH GOD.
> 
> I think my favourite bit to write was Death's Last Stand, I *enjoyed* that.
> 
> Keep me alive and writing with comments! ;)  
> ^-^ <3


	18. Everywhere The Broken-Hearted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I didn't finish on time... but the GOBB mods said it would be okay (and also gO TO SLEEP WYVERN), so I suppose it's fine. (Thank you, mods! <3)  
> And it's only one more chapter after this one, and the epilogue, of course.
> 
> The second appearance of Bob Ross is only in there because my darling Nugget dared me to put him in again somewhere. Well, she owes me cookies now!
> 
> Enjoy the product of the worst of my sleep-deptivation! I hope it's, like, not-terrible, but even after a decent night's sleep it's a little hard to tell for me.
> 
> <3

Nanny Ashtoreth sat on the very edge of the bed that was currently occupied by one (1) quasi-Antichrist (fallen asleep in her arms halfway back to the B&B, nobody had the heart to wake him), one (1) actually-Antichrist (currently powerless, had been made to apologise for calling the former "stupid"), three (3) Not-Them members (categorically refusing to leave formers' side, believed to be at finishing school sleepover event/"at least he's out of our hair"/"probably trying to stop the Jerry kid from getting killed somewhere" respectively) and one (1) Hellhound, of which there was rather more than the bed could feasibly hold.

The children were all soundly asleep by now, and there was little reason why she had not stopped humming the traditional hellaby* under her breath, extracted her hand from Warlock's death grip, and left the room.

*Hellish lullabies. Crowley still had a collection book of them back at his flat, featuring such classics as "kill-a-bye baby" or "sweet nightmares" and the ageless "hush, my child, not a peep, I'll murder your enemies in their sleep", which baby Warlock had loved especially.

And yet…

And yet here she was, letting the boy - who was, after all, their potential ticket home - simply sleep, humming softly about death and suffering while carding a hand through his hair.

Love did make you terribly foolish, more often than not.

Ashtoreth finished the hellaby with a little sigh.

"Is something the matter, Aziraphale?" She asked under her breath.

Notziraphale had been standing in the doorframe of the honeymoon suite - understood now to be the nursery, perhaps more fittingly - since the last two songs, watching her with an unreadable expression and quite obviously something on his mind.

"I need a word, Crowley." He muttered, voice low in deference to the sleeping children. "Apologies, I wouldn't usually disturb-"

"But it's important." Ashtoreth very, very gently pried one finger after the other from around her arm, with more care than archaeologists awarded to their most precious finds. "I understand."

Warlock's hand twitched weakly when she extracted her arm, and it broke her heart a little.

(But that was alright, she supposed. The kid was going to _die_ one day, better she got her heartbreak in and over with early.)

She was barely halfway through the room when a soft "don't go" stopped her in her tracks.

Warlock was awake, watching her from under tired eyelids.

"I'll not be gone for long, hellspawn." She tried to reassure him.

_(What had Crowley said to him last, before it was goodbye forever? A similar assurance? Nothing? He couldn't remember.)_

"Know what, you may watch the telly in bed while I am… discussing matters with Mr Aziraphale.. How's that?"

Warlock looked none too happy about it, but was clearly far too afraid to say anything, do anything, that might scare her away again to protest.

"But only something nice and calming."

She waved at the small set in the corner, which, yes, usually stood downstairs in the living room, but had been gently encouraged to rethink its position. Literally.

"How about some nice drawing and art-"

_"FUCK, TAKE A FUCKING GANDER AT THESE FUCKING TREES! THEY'RE HAPPY LITTLE FUCKERS, YOU CAN FUCKING TELL!"*_

*Jerry, although fast asleep, would subconsciously incorporate a certain word from this rant into his daily vocabulary and use it as often as possible.

We are talking, Dear Reader, about "gander", of course.

"...right." Ashtoreth sighed a deep, deep sigh. "Right."

She zapped through the channels for a few moments, lingering on Antiques Roadshow until it became clear the auctioneers could challenge each other to Mad-Max-style death matches, and finally settled on Doctor Who reruns.*

*The titular character and main villain had only just attacked a settlement of innocent Daleks, who currently appeared to be in EXTERMourning over their fallen comrades.

Satisfied, Ashtoreth set the remote down.

"Sleep well then, little demonling." She said lovingly, leaning down and kissing his hair the way he had only barely tolerated since he'd turned 8, pulling the tartan quilt over him. "Nanny loves you, my dear."

"Love you." Warlock mumbled back, and she took those words and placed them on a pedestal somewhere in her heart, to stay there forever.

Giving each of the other children involved in the cuddle pile and pat on the head, and GoodDog a scratch behind the ear, she followed Notziraphale out and to the room that had initially been Anathema's.*

*There was absolutely no doubt over where she was spending the night, or whom with; and Mrs Potts would be having absolute conniptions over it if the number of available rooms hadn't forced her to room with MP Shadwell, which obviously provided even better material to be furious over.**

**They had already gotten off to a fantastic start when Mrs Potts, reluctantly impressed, had said "Now. Ephraim. I gather you are a politician - with the Christian-conservatives, I do hope?" and had received a short introduction into the agenda of the Wiccan party in return.

Suffice to say, she had Disapproved.

Crowley snapped his fingers as he stepped over the threshold, skirts shrinking into the skintight sort of pants Crowley favoured, and hair deciding it rather preferred to be short and sticky-up than mid-length and perfectly styled.

"Please, don't change on _my_ account." Notziraphale said mildly, closing the door behind them. "The blouse suited you."

"Thanks." Crowley smiled, only a hint exhausted. (All right, rather exhausted, really, but what was physical tiredness in the grand scheme of things and Apocalypses?) "But nah. Don't feel like it today. It was mostly for the kid's benefit."

"Hmm." Notziraphale nodded, only a little tightly. "You're good with him. With children generally. Better than I am, at least."

Crowley snorted, letting himself fall backwards onto the bed, which was soft and bouncy and the closest to Heaven he got, these days. "You used to _teach Latin,_ angel. The bar is set low."

"...fair." Notziraphale acknowledged, sitting on the bed as well, though at a certain careful distance. "So."

Crowley cracked one eye open. "So?"

Notziraphale stared at him for just a moment too long, and just a little strangely.

"'We don't do much, in the end', _my arse!"_ He suddenly blurted out, smirk spreading over his cheeks. "You prevented bloody Armageddon singlehandedly, Crowley! Have you been selling yourself short in other regards as well? Next you'll be telling me you rule over the Hell of your reality and Make An Effort the size of-"

"Mr Aziraphale!" Crowley gasped dramatically, reaching over and slapping the closest part he could reach, which happened to be his thigh. "The dirty mind on you! I'll have you know I keep my Efforts proportional to the occasion - not that it's any of _your_ business."

"It could be."

Said without humorous inflection, but also not mocking nor even flirting.

Just. Plain. An offer.

Okay, what was _that_ about, now!?

"Hngk. Er. Yeah," Crowley responded vaguely, and hurried to change the subject. "You. I. Talk? Something. About."

"Yes." Notziraphale seemed amused by his flailing, in a softer way than Crowley ever would've expected from him. "It's about…"

He sighed, leaning back against the headboard.

"I've spoken to Death about this already, and he rather suspects I'm correct in my assumptions. The… your aim, in all this. The way back to your reality. I know what you have to do."

"What!" Crowley immediately shot up. "You… really!?"

"Possibly." Notziraphale didn't look even remotely as happy as Crowley felt, but the thought, the mere _thought,_ of seeing _Aziraphale_ again, the real, proper one with his soft little pursed smiles and coy looks… it made him blind to nearly anything else.

"I was going to ask Warlock, but I wondered…" He simply continued to ramble on. "If he could've fixed it then he would've, wouldn't he. Wasn't exactly very happy with this world, poor thing, so-"

"It's nothing to do with the boy, Crowley." Notziraphale interjected sharply. "Pulsifer's book had a prophecy prepared for this."

"...I should've seen that coming." Crowley conceded. "Considering what Agnes… never mind. Spill, then. What do I have to do to get home?"

Notziraphale fiddled with the paper in his hands, but the moment Crowley reached for it, he stuffed it back into his jacket pocket.

"Have you." He began, very carefully not looking at Crowley. "Have you considered…"

A pained expression.

"...have you considered staying?"

* * *

AZIRAPHALE HAS COME TO ME WITH SOME… FOOD FOR THOUGHTS, MORTIS. Death said, feeding her another treat and petting her head. I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND LISTENING TO ME CHEW IT THROUGH. DO YOU, LOVE?

She looked up at him with her innocent, loving eyes, and the empty space Death had in place of a heart ached in the worst and best of ways.

I KNEW FROM THE START WHAT I WOULD HAVE TO DECIDE, OF COURSE. IT'S QUITE OBVIOUS.

AND YET, I WISH I COULD…

He leaned back against the side of the bed.

YOU KNOW, MORTIS, I WON'T LIE TO YOU AND SAY I HAVEN'T… THOUGHT ABOUT IT. WHAT IT WOULD BE LIKE, STAYING HERE. STAYING… A PERSON, NOT JUST A CONCEPT.

YOU CAN'T IMAGINE IT, OF COURSE, BEING SO YOUNG STILL.

He paused. AND A KITTEN, I SUPPOSE.

MORTIS purred. Death scratched her chin.

ANYWAY, MY POINT IS… IT DOES SOMETHING TO YOU, BEING AROUND SINCE THE BEGINNING OF THE UNIVERSE. YOU CAN'T _CARE_ IF YOU'RE DEATH, DO YOU UNDERSTAND, MORTIS? IT WAS NEVER A CHOICE I MADE, CONSCIOUSLY. IT ONLY… I FORGOT. FORGOT WHAT IT'S LIKE, TO _CARE,_ TO FEEL, JUST A LITTLE BIT.

IMMORTALITY IS A CURSE, YOU KNOW. NOT BECAUSE YOU CAN'T DIE, BUT BECAUSE EVERYBODY ELSE DOES; AND BY THE TIME HUMANITY CAME AROUND, HER LITTLE PET PROJECT, I DIDN'T REALLY… NOT ANYMORE.

He sighed.

BUT I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT… I WILL NOT FORGET AGAIN IF I _STAY_ HERE. I WILL LEARN TO ARRANGE MYSELF, TO TAKE LIVES STILL, I'VE DONE IT BEFORE, BUT... I COULD KEEP CARING, MAYBE.

Death held out his fingers, let MORTIS lick at them.

I COULD KEEP CARING FOR YOU. He said, as if it was the only thing that mattered in all the universe, the only thing he'd ever wanted.

I THINK I SHOULD LIKE THAT VERY MUCH.

* * *

"...whot." Crowley blinked, slow and deliberate. "Aziraphale, that's... not funny. Why would I want to stay here!? My Bentley is a garbage can on wheels, there's only creepy art in my flat, and… well, and _you-"_

"I? _I_ love you." Notziraphale said firm and pointed, throwing it into their conversation like a challenge and waiting for Crowley to pick up the gauntlet. "I love you, Crowley. The way your silly, soft angel will never love you. And you? You love me."

"Not _you."_ Crowley said immediately, mouth dry, inching away from Notziraphale on the bed, from the strange desperation in his eyes.

"And why not me!?" Notziraphale exclaimed, heated. "No, think about it, Crowley. Really think. You find me attractive, I know you do. And, comparing your style and Crawly's total absence of one, you might even find me _more_ visually pleasing."

"Tartan vests and bowties are very _in_ this season, actually." Crowley tried valiantly, but it came out rather more weak than it ought to.

"We're getting on, aren't we? By now, at least. And we have things alike, I _know_ it, simply because Crawly's interests and mine have always been… diametrically opposed. And you are kind and brave and… and _worthy of love._ Just as much as I am. Why should we choose to be miserable, then? Why should we go back to the way things were? We might carve out a life for ourselves, you and I."

Crowley shook his head, but it was disbelief more than refusal.

"I would take you to one of the new Jane Bond movies, which I am certain you love because _so do I._ We would not go for dinner, because neither of us ever eat. You would get to shag the angel you love, and I would get to love the demon I shag, it's mutually beneficial - Crowley, just think about it!"

"I am." Crowley confessed quietly. "I… I have been. But. Aziraphale, I'm sorry, I don't _love_ you. Not the way I love _him."_

"But you might, eventually!" Feverish urgency, shaking hands coming up to frame Crowley's face. "This is _our chance,_ demon. You wanted this, didn't you? Something different. Well, here it is. _Here it is!_ Take it, why don't you?"

Crowley swallowed. He _wanted._

"I'm not Crawly, either, Aziraphale." He said, and with all the strength his battered heart could spare, he gently removed his hands, taking them in his. "Fakely, remember? I'm not him."

"Why would I WANT you to be!?" Notziraphale scoffed. "He's a monster. I don't want him."

"Oh, but you do." Crowley said, miserably. "And if not him, then…"

He sighed.

"Remember the Garden, angel?"

Notziraphale frowned, startled by the sudden change in topic. "Of course I remember. It was a ghastly day, and-"

"No." Crowley instantly cut in. "It was a nice day, all the days had been nice, don't you remember?"

"Well." A hint of uncertainty. "I seem to recall the sun coming out, later."

"It began raining," Crowley corrected sadly. "You shielded me with your wing..."

"Nonsense, I chased you off with my flaming sword, threw it right at-!"

"You gave it away, angel!" A tear dripped from his eye, and Crowley wiped it away impatiently. "You _gave it away,_ and I fell in love with you right then and there, what's the lie, your memories or mine?"

Silence.

"...so long...?" Notziraphale said, and for a moment, just a moment, he looked at him with nothing but pity.

"Always." Crowley said hoarsely. "And…"

He let go of Notziraphale's hands.

"And I wouldn't be able to love you the same way. We don't have any of that shared history, we fell in love with different people, we wouldn't ever… it won't work, Aziraphale. It's a pretty dream, but it won't work."

He held out his hand.

"So… give me the prophecy now, please."

Notziraphale put his hand in his pocket…

And, wordlessly, got up and slipped out of the room.

Crowley cursed quietly, and scrambled after him.

* * *

I REMEMBERED WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO BE MORTAL TODAY, MORTIS. Death said, soft and contemplative. I DIDN'T THINK I WAS GOING TO DIE, OH NO... BUT. I FELT LIKE I _COULD._ DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

MORTIS blinked at him. He knew, rationally, that she didn't understand a word, of course.

And yet, something about her told him that, maybe, just maybe, she might.

AND I THOUGHT ABOUT… HOW IT MIGHT BE POSSIBLE FOR ME TO EXIST DIFFERENTLY. I COULD HAVE A LITTLE HOUSE, JUST BEYOND THE BORDERS OF THE UNIVERSE. ADOPT A DAUGHTER, MAYBE, TAKE AN APPRENTICE FOR THE DREADFUL DAY-TO-DAY OF BEING DEATH. TRY BEING HAPPY.

TRY _BEING_ , GENERALLY. Death added after a moment of thought. I DON'T THINK I'VE _BEEN,_ MUCH. I JUST _HAPPENED_ TO OTHERS.

IT MIGHT'VE BEEN NICE TO…

Death trailed off.

TO…

Something sad and resigned in his non-features now.

OH, LISTEN TO ME GO ON. A HOME, A FAMILY. WHAT'S NEXT? WORK AS A COOK? A FARMER? AND I SUPPOSE THE EARTH IS FLAT, TOO. AND RIDING ON THREE ELEPHANTS ON THE BACK OF A TURTLE, WHILE WE'RE AT IT.

He let MORTIS settle on his sternum, felt her purring echo in his ribcage and pretended, for a moment, that it was the sound of his own heart beating.

I'M SORRY, MORTIS. I WON'T BE HERE ANYMORE, TOMORROW. I'LL BE BACK WHERE, REGRETTABLY, I BELONG. BEING DEATH, HAPPENING TO OTHER PEOPLE. HAVING FORGOTTEN HOW TO CARE, HOW TO FEEL.

Death felt like he might cry, if he could.

I'D SAY I'LL MISS YOU, BUT… I THINK I SHAN'T BE CAPABLE OF IT ANYMORE, COME TOMORROW. SHAN'T CARE ABOUT WHETHER OR NOT I DO, EITHER.

A heavy, heavy pause.

MORTIS crawled up his sternum, little claws digging into his cloak, rubbing her soft, warm, alive head against the side of his skull as if to comfort him.

SMALL MERCIES. Death said, but his voice was brittle; and it didn't feel like mercy at all.

* * *

He found Notziraphale in, perhaps, one of the last places he would've expected him.

He sat in the front seat of the Volkswagen, head in his hands, looking as if the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders…

...and promptly snapped his spine in two.

The gelbpunkt was running, even though the VW's motor was not.

It was only thanks to Aziraphale dragging him into various "especially edifying" opera performances that Crowley recognised the aria Freddie was delivering in absolute perfection as Puccini's _Nessun Dorma._

Crowley slid into the driver's seat.

Didn't say anything, only rested one hand on Notziraphale's back, rubbing in circles and trying to ignore the singing about sleepless nights, and love's triumph come morning.

It was far too apt, in a painful way.

"He dragged me along to this one, insisted I see it." Notziraphale finally said, voice thick with tears. "Years and years ago. _It's my favourite Aziraphale, powerful message Aziraphale, even you philistine might like it._ And I thought… I thought…"

He laughed bitterly.

"He knows, I thought, when I saw it. He knows, he must know, for why else would he take me to an opera in which a foolish Prince loves a monster of a Princess who cannot, _will not_ love him back? Who murders half her own realm and a sweet, faithful girl who loved the Prince, only to save herself from marrying him? An opera on unrequited love, and what it _does_ to people. He must've known."

A sigh.

"I daresay my expression must've been an utter spectacle then. That's why he was so insistent. Why he wanted me to share in the experience. He wished to watch me break, really get his money's worth on the tickets!"

Hands balled to fist against the dashboard.

"I don't even like opera. Never have, pretentious and long-winded. I liked it even less after that night of _Turandot."_

He snorted weakly.

"Some people let you down gently. Crawly, oh no, _Crawly_ must teach me a lesson with brutal, tragic caterwauling, that nothing good will ever come from love. In a way, it was very on brand."

Crowley said nothing. He had the feeling Notziraphale wasn't finished, yet.

"And the worst thing? You are _right,_ Crowley."

Some tears, dripping from some eyes, wiped away hastily by some shaking fingers.

"Of course you are. Despite all that, I still want _him."_

He reached out, rested one hand over Crowley's heart.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a tremor. I do this to Crawly, I see stars being created before my very eyes, and feel the universe shift in tandem with his heartbeat. A monstrous demon, and yet I… I..."

His expression pulled into a grimace of pain.

"...and yet I _miss_ him. You're better than him in any regard, I know that, and yet I want _him,_ of all creatures in Heaven and Hell. Him! You, you don't belong here, don't belong with me, it was silly to claim otherwise, but I just wanted to- to..."

His voice cracked and broke. He sniffed.

"...it doesn't matter what I want, does it? You want your soft bookhoarder, and Crawly… Crawly wants anything but _me."_

He buried his face in his hands again, shoulders shaking quietly. Crowley put one arm around them, and held him close.

They were quiet like this, for ten minutes at the very least, Signore Mercury the only voice in the bus.

  
  
  


Finally, without a word, Notziraphale reached into his pocket, and held out the scrap of paper that was Adultery's last prophecy.

Crowley took it.

  
  
  


_Lafte: Nighte of the Fyrft Day After - Taddesfield - Anthony J. Crowley. As the Deamon wisheth, thus it shalle Be Returnéd - for he waf The Cause, and he be The Cure._

_"Anthony,"_ Notziraphale said, just a little too light-hearted for the rawness in his voice. "Really?"

"You would've gotten used to it." Crowley muttered back absently.

Turned the paper around.

"That's it, then? That's all?"

"Seems so simple, now, doesn't it." Notziraphale smiled, a little grimly. "Maybe _think_ before you go around rubbing magic lamps next time, hmm?"

Crowley made a rude gesture in his direction, before folding his hands together.

"Ngk. Right, then." He cleared his throat. "I wish…"

He took a deep breath.

"I wish everything were back to normal."

Silence.

"So." Notziraphale said.

"So." Crowley agreed.

"Might take a while to kick in?"

"Probably."

He unfolded his hands again.

They both wondered what to say to each other, now that it was all over and done with.

"Promise me one thing." Notziraphale said suddenly. "When you have your Aziraphale back… tell him you love him. For me. Even if he can't appreciate it, even if he rejects you… he ought to know how much he means to you. Tell him, because he'll be kind about it, he will. You'll remain friends. And... I want one of us, at least, to be able to stop lying about how they feel."

"...yeah. Okay." Crowley promised, and it was the hardest thing he'd ever done. "I'll tell him. And… I'm tempted to tell you to give your Crawly the shag of his existence, really show him what _I'm_ missing, with the choice I've made. But.."

He tapped his fingers against the wheel.

"Look, Aziraphale, they say we don't choose who we love." Crowley began, carefully. "But, in some ways, we do. And despite him being fully, truly horrible to you, you've chosen him for the past thousand years. And chosen him again and again and again.

"I'm not telling you to drop him entirely. Satan knows that's near impossible if you love someone quite that much. Just… if you want my advice, stop falling for every little provocation of his, for a start. Practise some self-care. Maybe even make some other* friends. Human friends, most likely, celestials are 99% insuffer-"

*Or just plainly "friends", since you could hardly count Crawly as one.

"Humans!? Humans die." Notziraphale interjected, very nearly sharply. "They'll die on you, always."

"Yeah. So they will, nobody knows that more than I. But..." Crowley thought of Warlock, of Anathema, of Freddie and Leonardo and even Jesus Christ, and smiled, just a little, to himself. "But, I've been also thinking, recently... what's the point of them having lived in the first place, if _we_ don't care?"

Notziraphale clenched his jaw very tightly.

"...I'll think on it." He said.

"That's all I ask, really."

They sat in silence for a while longer, and it was almost companionable now, listening together to the crackling old cassette.

"And, you. You should know," Crowley began, haltingly. "The composer, Puccini… the opera isn't intended as a tragedy, actually. He died, and never composed past Liu's death, but originally… well, in _my_ world, someone else completed it for him."

"...really?" Notziraphale frowned at him.

"Hnngyeah. The Prince, he. He loves her enough to trust the Princess with his life, in the end. Kisses her. And tells her his name, so she can kill him if she wishes."

"And, does she?"

  
  
  


"No." Crowley looked over at Notziraphale. "Turns out, against all evidence to the contrary... she loves him back."

  
  
  


Notziraphale scoffed quietly.

"What a ridiculous ending." He muttered under his breath. "Entirely unrealistic. Love doesn't work like that, I've found. If someone intends to kill you, then it's rather certain they hate you."

"...maybe it doesn't." Crowley sighed. "But it's nice to pretend that it does, sometimes, isn't it?"

"I suppose so." Notziraphale agreed reluctantly. "Is it your thing then, opera?"

Crowley snorted. "Satan, no. Aziraphale - my Aziraphale - took me."

A smirk. "Sounds like he and Crawly would get along."

Crowley thought of Aziraphale's caring and kindness, and the monster Notziraphale described Crawly as.

"No." He shuddered. "I don't think they would."

"...neither do I, really."

* * *

PROMISE ME ONE THING, THOUGH, MORTIS. Death whispered into the dark of the night. FORGET ABOUT ME. OR, BETTER YET… RUN AND HIDE, IF YOU EVER SEE ME AGAIN.

IT WON'T BE ME.

IT'LL BE _DEATH,_ AND IF AT ALL POSSIBLE, I NEVER WANT YOU TO MEET _HIM._

* * *

Crowley let his head rest against the back of his seat, closing his eyes for just a moment. It really was rather late, and preventing an Apocalypse drained you.

"It's a shame, though." Notziraphale murmured into the darkness between them, sounding quite sleepy himself. "I think… even without love between us, you and I might've been good friends, given the chance."

Crowley made a vague sound of agreement.

"The Jane Bond movies really are quite good. And that, that band of yours… we might've gone to a concert. Could've been nice."

"Yeah." Crowley yawned, sliding sideways a little, until he was leaning against something soft and warm. "Friendsss. Nice."

"Isn't it." Notziraphale said, low and sad.

And then, with the stars glinting overhead, they both fell asleep.

  
  
  


The cassette, long run until its end, suddenly clicked and whirred in the gelbpunkt.

 _Nessun Dorma,_ again, Freddie Mercury with his voice heartachingly tender, at first, but rising quickly in strength, in passion; until it jumped to triumphant heights, holding that final note high and perfect, until…

Until it shifted to something that had never been heard in this world before and, perhaps, never would again.

  
  


_All'alba vinceró!_

_Vinceeeeeeró!_

_Vinceeeeeeeeeeee are the champions, my friend!_

_And we'll keep on fighting,_

_'Til the end..._

  
  


* * *

Notziraphale woke again long before the first rays of the new dawn broke through the windshield;

And he was alone.

The first thing he did upon realising that was cry, for just a minute.

And after that, he got up.

Took the golden-haired Antichrist who answered to the name Warlock, returned him to his family, the Dowling's; and brought the Hellhound back to the Pit.

And, finally, returned the VW bus to the street in front of a certain building in Mayfair.

Then he went back to his bookshop.

He didn't open it up to customers.

Just sat behind the counter, in the semi-dark; missing someone who might've been his friend, missing someone-else-and-yet-the-same who he hated and loved and hated to love;

And wondering, more lost than ever before, what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny, I had part of their "you're not The One for me" conversation written since I started this back in... September? August? And it was most peculiar to incorporate it into a conversation now, months and months later.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the massive dose of Feels - next chapter is going to be happier!  
> (Also, MORTIS WILL BE FINE I WILL NOT HARM HER THERE'S A HAPPY ENDING IN STORE FOR HER. Just to reassure you.)  
> It's, like, half-written, so i hope to get it out today still, and the Crawly-POV epilogue at some point tomorrow.
> 
> Do leave a kudos or comment if you'd like!
> 
> [Also, here is a post of all of Ryoukon's awesome art (so far)!](https://www.instagram.com/p/B8mlOUmF_XT/?igshid=89jiefzc1lpf)
> 
> EDIT: the lovely Ashfae has introduced me to [this video](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=fhwymDhyepY) of the insanely talented Marc Martel singing _Nessun Dorma_ in the style of Freddie Mercury, and I wept at its beauty and how INCREDIBLY WELL IT FITS THIS CHAPTER, so I'm putting the link here for you all to enjoy as well.  
> Dear Lord, what a voice.


	19. Dawn Is Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, NO MATTER HOW I MIGHT MAKE IT LOOK, WE DO NOT HURT MORTIS IN THIS HOUSE. She be fine.
> 
> Also, wow, this is it. The final chapter. I do hope I didn't leave out anything extremely relevant in the heat of frantically writing up...
> 
> Enjoy!!! <3

In the last few days, waking up had always been a bit of a gamble for Crowley.

He'd woken in Crawly's dirty sheets and terrible flat, he'd woken in a pile of books with a hungover librarian begging him to come along  _ quietly, _ and in the comfort of a B&B bed. It was all unusual and peculiar and a far cry from his routine, and part of him feared the worst even now.

Crowley stuck one hand out from underneath the covers and felt around.

Not VW bus. Good sign.

Pillow. Mattress. No elaborately carved headboard, and no scratchy-warm tartan quilt. Better sign yet.

Crowley threw back the blanket, stretched, and looked around.

High windows. Stark, minimal design. Surfaces that dust wouldn't  _ dare _ gather on.

He was…

He was home.

Crowley let out a sound that he would forever deny was a whoop, jumping to his feet and racing out of the bedroom.

No couch, no piles of garbage gathering in the corners, there, his throne, the lectern from the church he had saved Aziraphale in, and…

Crowley laughed with joy, twirling in the middle of the  _ plant room. _

"No bloody paintings!" He exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. "Only my  _ gorgeous _ plants- looking good there! Keep up the excellent work!"

He shot a nearby azalea finger guns.

The plant shrunk back in terror.  _ What sort of psychological terror was this now? _

But Crowley ignored the terrified shaking, couldn't care less for the fact that the vines looked less than perky anyway, and the geranium over there was developing spots - and the less said about that English Ivy, the better.

He was  _ home. _

He ran to the windows, looking out at London,  _ his _ London, in the soft glow of a new dawn.

It was so heartstoppingly beautiful, he couldn't look away.

There, the Bentley on the curb, gleaming and flawless. Oh, Crowley might weep.

He snapped his fingers, and behind him, the telly turned on.

Crowley took a deep, relieved breath, leaning his forehead against the glass and letting the calm, peaceful murmur of his world's Bob Ross wash over him.

From the sound of it, he was painting a sunrise.

* * *

Anathema - opposite-Anathema, Dear Reader, don't let Crowley being back home confuse you - woke to an empty bed.

_ Well. _ She thought, for one bitter, resigned moment.  _ I suppose The Old Hag* was right about some things, after all. _

*Her new way to refer to Mrs Potts, almost affectionate in a way that nonetheless acknowledged how awful it was, objectively, to be her charge.

_ Men do all want just one thing. _

Oddly, she found she wasn't  _ as _ despondent as she might've been. She'd… hoped, with Newt, of course. He'd looked at her as if...

Well.

But if that was all there was to it, then Anathema categorically  _ refused _ to be unhappy about it. She'd kissed a man straight off a movie poster, had loved and felt loved for a day, and the whole thing that had happened in this bed last night had been as wonderful as she'd always shamefully imagined it would be.

She'd been blasphemous, she'd Questioned, and ultimately, she'd had the time of her life.

And she would be  _ damned  _ if she threw all that away and crawled back to her boring, miserable life and Mrs Potts' gloating, just because Newt had broken her hear-

The door opened. 

"Anathema! You're awake!" Newt beamed at her as if she was a revelation, which she couldn't  _ possibly _ be, sitting in bed with her hair all over the place and not even a shirt on.

He, on the other hand, seemed to have been outside, wearing shoes and a jacket - thin, it was summer again, after all, the storm nothing but a memory - and carrying a bag in one hand, which he placed on the blanket before her like an offering.

Anathema blinked.

It looked like takeout.*

*She'd never had any, of course, but she knew the general look.

"It's. Ah." His cheeks reddened, and he hurried to pull something else from his pocket. "Bit silly I suppose, but… you said you'd never, and- here."

He pressed a small package of sweets into her palm.

"Took me a while to find a place that did Thai food in Tadfield." Newt smiled, bashfully and all the more gorgeous for it. "The liquorice was easier."

"Oh." Anathema said softly, looking down at the liquorice allsorts in her hand. "You got me- oh."

She ripped the package open, and popped one into her mouth.

"Do you like it?" Newt asked, eager and hopeful and looking at her like she was his entire world. "Try the Thai food, too. I'm not sure if we should get arrested, but, as for the other things… it's not quite Paris, but I conduct research at Salem Memorial College for one more term, it's in America, and, if you'd like, you could-"

Newt broke off, and, for a brief moment, he looked frightened and uncertain and shy.

"You could come there with me?"

Anathema stared at him.

"Or. Or not!" Newt backpedalled, quick and panicked. "What am I saying, you probably want to go home with Mrs Potts, I'm sorry-"

Anathema held up one hand.

Swallowed her liquorice.

"Newton Pulsifer." She said, very seriously. "If you don't kiss me right this moment, I shall riot."

He did.

Thai food was just as delicious eaten cold, and Anathema thought she was going to love liquorice for the rest of her life.

...and it rather seemed like  _ liquorice _ loved her right back.

* * *

It was a little strange, being back, after... all of it.

Crowley'd wanted this, yearned for it, imagined all the things he'd do, and yet…

And yet, now that he actually  _ could _ drive his Bentley down Bond street at far too many miles an hour than was prudent, now that he  _ could _ go to the bookshop and just lie down on the old floorboards and watch Aziraphale go about his business, now that he was free to do all these wonderful, wonderful things…

Now, he was scared.

So Crowley stood alone at the waterfront in St James's Park, watching the ducks and trying to come to terms with the fact that these were _ his _ ducks,  _ his _ park,  _ his _ disgruntled octogenarians wondering if he was up to funny business. That any and all religious nutters would not be Mrs Potts and Anathema, that Shadwell had never sat in parliament. That this was reality as he knew it.

The whole thing reminded him of the months after the Wars. Young men suddenly returned to their loved ones, their homes, not knowing how to talk to their families about the things they'd seen in the trenches that were suddenly worlds away. Choosing instead not to talk at all, to push their loving wives away and find their solace in drink.

Crowley wasn't drinking, but it was a near thing. He certainly  _ wanted _ to.

How could he face Aziraphale, having kissed that mouth? Having died looking into those eyes? Having heard the words "I love you" spoken in that voice?

He would be fine eventually, he was sure.

Only… he needed this moment. Sitting in the morning sun and thinking things through. Making his peace with it.

Crowley looked up.

"It was entirely rhetorical, you know." He told the sky. "There was no need to  _ actually- _ oh, never mind."

Crowley sighed. Always liked to overkill, didn't She.

"You'll be glad to know that I learned my lesson, at least. I get it, you hear? I get it. I was being an idiot, making wishes I wasn't thinking through even remotely. Not appreciating any of what I have, and wanting the… the sadly impossible. That was downright stupid."

He grinned weakly up at the few specks of clouds.

"But I'm turning a new leaf, God. Damn you, whatever you were planning to do with the deranged bizarro-world nonsense, it worked. I got the message loud and clear, and… it's good advice, I think.

"God, I won't continue to recklessly discard the people I love just because… because they can't be what I want them to be. Warlock is mortal, Aziraphale sees me as a friend, so what!? I'll still be there for them from now on, I promise. I'll visit the Dowlings, take my godson out for ice cream. Go on that birthday party in Tadfield. Maybe join a knitting group or something, and drag Aziraphale along because I value him too much to let a broken heart come between us. I'll enjoy every second of his company, and every second I can spend in this magnificent world among these magnificent humans, because THIS, this right here, is the best possible version of reality there is."

Crowley took off his glasses, wiping them on his shirt, and pretending manfully that his eyes weren't rather damp.

"I see that now." He said quietly, and smiled despite himself.

"So, as much as I would've appreciated NOT being thrown into another world at a moment's notice… thank you, God. It's a lesson I  _ needed  _ to learn."

Still smiling, he took out his phone.

Dialled a number.

The moment the line clicked open, Crowley began to talk.

He had a promise to keep, after all.

"Hey, angel," he said and, for once, didn't disguise the raw affection in his voice in the least. "Just calling to tell you…"

A deep breath, but not too long. There was the sound of someone on the other end of the line opening their mouth to speak, and he wouldn't be able to continue if Aziraphale said even a single word now.

"...I love you. I always have." Funny, how it was still an absolutely terrifying thing to say, even without a gun pointed at your face.

(The softest little gasp, and Crowley's heart sobbed in relief simply to hear it, could live off that gasp for centuries to come.)

There. He'd said it. Promise kept.

He'd worry about all the rest later.

"That's all. Ciao." Crowley said, a little shakily, and ended the call before Aziraphale could say anything like  _ "Crowley, wait-"  _ or similar.*

*Pure self-preservation instinct. Notziraphale had been correct in his assumption that Aziraphale would be kind about the whole thing, in the end. But his darling angel had never been particularly good at holding his knee-jerk reactions to the same standards, so Crowley figured it would be better to let him voice all that ugly "God NO, I don't want you to!" in private, for both their sakes.

He turned his phone off, put his head back to let the sun shine on his face, and, for a moment, just  _ existed. _

Maybe he just ruined the best friendship he ever had or would have. Maybe he was making a terrible, terrible mistake. Maybe he'd gotten it all wrong from beginning to end.

But no matter what happened now, Crowley felt at peace. With himself, with the world, with  _ everything.* _

*Not with Her, not yet, not fully. That, Crowley thought, would take more than an evil-genie-nightmare wish fulfilment. Maybe a conversation face-to-face, for a start. An apology. Some indication that She actually  _ cared _ about his happiness, rather than just teaching him a brutal lesson for the fun of pulling the carpet out from under him and watching the resulting flailage.**

**This entire footnote has been brought to you by FORESHADOWING™, readily available in any fic near you.

_ That's alright then. _ Crowley thought to himself, listening to the hustle and bustle of London, the chattering of the ducks, the lapping of the waves.  _ It's alright. _

Somewhere in the branches, a nightingale sang; and with it, a street performer by the benches, singing opera - a lovely rendition of the  _ Te Deum  _ from  _ Tosca, _ at the moment.

Crowley walked over to the singer with a new-found spring in his step, pulling a 500£ note from thin air and dropping it into her hat with a flourish.

"If I get a request for that…" He sat down - read: comfortably lounged - on the bench next to her. "I'd love me some  _ Turandot." _

  
  
  


The woman picked up the money with a smile.

(The sort of enigmatic smile that was more at place at a poker table, that indicated plans great and small and always, always ineffable.)

"As you wish," she said, nearly smirking now.

But when she began singing, it was not what Crowley had wished for  _ at all. _

_ "Do, a deer, a female deer, Re, a drop of golden sun…" _

"Oh, blessed Hell!" Crowley groaned, throwing a glare over at her. "Listen, I'll give you another 500 if you sing  _ any-bloody-thing els-" _

Crowley trailed off.

Sat up straighter.

Stared at her with his mouth gaping open.

The singer smiled back at him… but so did the beggar woman from the Soho street.

And so did the sun and stars and the entire bloody universe in her eyes - or, to be correct, in  _ Her _ eyes.

"Oh." Crowley said.

And then, "Oh,  _ God." _

"Precisely!" The Almighty Herself said cheerfully, and Crowley hated his life just a little bit.

  
  
  
  


"Well. Ngk. Great to be seeing you how have you been we should catch up oh dear I've a roast in the oven bye." Crowley said very quickly, employing the time-honed formula of any child unwittingly answering a call from their mother because they hadn't checked the screen and finding themselves hard-pressed for a way to force the conversation to a stop.

He shot up, ready to power-walk/run his way out of the park. The city. The country, if need be.

Hell, he might make it across the milky way if he did some stretches first.

"Crowley." A gentle hand on his arm stopped him. Crowley might've whimpered. "Don't go. Have lunch with me, you look far too thin. Have you not been eating properly?"

Crowley mumbled something about still digesting half a goose from last Christmas, but was, of course, ignored and dragged along by Her.

After all, just because She had apparently decided he was worth talking to, it didn't automatically follow that She was actually  _ listening to him, _ too…

* * *

"Why don't  _ you _ take care of that, Crowley?" God -  _ God, _ god - said, accepting the plate of steaming, delicious curry from the food cart owner with obviously very little intention of getting Her wallet out.

"I just gave you 500-" Crowley began to protest... but honestly, existence was too short. "Okay, never mind, yeah."

"You're a dear." She patted his head in a rather patronising manner, which was doubly unsettling for the fact that Her hands both appeared to be very firmly occupied with the curry and the stack of naan She was attempting to balance.

Crowley sighed, paid the man, and followed Her to a nearby bench, where She was already sitting and heartily tucking in.

He reached for a bite, and his hand was  _ instantly _ slapped away.*

*If God had employed similar tactics back in the Times of Eden, a lot of very complicated problems never would've arisen, come to think of it.

"Wasn't fattening me up the entire  _ point _ of this?" Crowkey asked tetchily, placing one hand on his left knee to keep it from anxiously jiggling.

"Ngmpf," God said around a mouthful. Swallowed. "Not exactly. I suspected you'd have questions, and, since I'm already here… you'll just shout them angrily at the ceiling later, why not streamline the process?"

Crowley had to concede that, yes, he absolutely  _ would _ have shouted at the ceiling. And yes, he _ did _ have a question. Multiple ones, really, but only one that truly mattered.

"...why?" He asked.

"Why not?" God shrugged, and, yeah, he'd expected that answer, more or less.

"But, also… because I wish you well, Crowley, and all the happiness in the world. There were… matters, lessons, I simply  _ needed _ to show you, it was quintessential. I was watching the entire time, you were never in any danger, none of you."

She tapped her spoon against the plate.

"And it worked. You learnt your lesson, haven't you?"

"...I did." Crowkey confirmed reluctantly.

A brief silence.

"But……?" She pushed. 

"But. Well. It  _ was _ a little bit cruel of you, though." Crowley muttered to himself.

"Cruel?" God blinked at him over a spoonful of curry halfway past Her lips.

"Yeah. There's definitely nicer ways to give someone a "Look, he's not into you" shovel talk than showing them the other's opposite-version in love with them, just saying."

"Mpfgmmm!?" God said.

"I had to come to terms with… with never getting to have that, which wasn't exactly  _ easy. _ I know it was important, reminding me to love humanity, big lesson at the end and all, but  _ that? _ That was just kicking me when I was down. And-"

"No, no, no, wait." God swallowed Her bite of curry, and put Her spoon down. "You think the moral of this whole thing was WHAT!?!?!?"

Crowley frowned. That was a lot of !?.*

*Anything beyond ! was already a little frightening when combined with capslock, and the sheer amount of punctuation here was veering quickly into downright terrifying.

"Well. You were. Uh. Trying to make me appreciate what I have more, enjoy earth and humanity instead of… wishing for what I can never…. with Aziraphale……..." Crowley trailed off. "...no?"

God was slowly shaking Her head with a downright  _ horrified  _ expression.

Crowley winced. "No. Okay. Fine. Great. So, it was really just about showing me that Aziraphale will never-"

Even more horrified expression. 

"No?"

"Where did you even get that idea!?!?!?!?"* God blurted out. "Whoever said that love was any different in that world!?"

*Oh, She was really getting into it now.

"The fact that it is an  _ opposite world?" _ Crowley said, and really,  _ really _ wanted to add a "duh".

"SOME things stayed the same!" God gesticulated forcefully with Her naan, and did, actually, say "duh!"

"...but  _ love _ doesn't." Crowley was really starting to feel like he was on the celestial version of candid camera or something. "Death had this theory-"

"Ah, dear Azrael!" She laughed. "The old fool has a lesson of his own to learn before he gets to give out any advice on love, let me tell you!"

* * *

"Excuse me, sir?" Leslie said, stepping out of his express delivery van.

YES?

"Very sorry sir, don't mean to disturb, but… are you quite alright there?"

PERFECTLY.

"Well. That's. That's good to hear. Only, you understand, when you see a fellow just standing about at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, you better check if he might not need a ride, right, sir?"

I'M SURE YOU ARE.

Leslie nodded to himself. "That's alright then."

They stood in silence for a while.

"Sorry sir, for my being curious, but… is there a particular reason for why you're standing about at the side of the road etcetera etcetera?"

The roadside stranger seemed to incline his hooded head slightly, as if contemplating whether or not to answer.

I'VE HAD… WHAT YOU MIGHT CALL, IRONICALLY, A NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE, RECENTLY. IT'S… SHAKEN ME UP.

"Oh." Leslie took off his cap and scratched his head. "So had I, a year ago."

I KNOW.

"Except it didn't just feel… near. Not  _ just. _ Strange experience."

DYING USUALLY IS.

"Maude helped, afterwards. My wife, Maude. It's easier to cope with such things if there's someone you love by your side."

He glanced over at the ominous stranger in his ominous cloak and with his really very ominous skull.

"I don't suppose you have anyone like that."

NO, I-

…

I DID. I HAD A-

BUT SHE WASN'T-

FORGET IT.

"Alright, sir," Leslie said, wisely not probing any further. "Is that why you're here then?"

INDIRECTLY. THIS IS ABOUT… CLOSURE, IN A WAY. I HAVE A CERTAIN ROLE, IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF THINGS, LESLIE. A DUTY TO FULFIL. YOU UNDERSTAND.

"Yeah. Out come wind or rain. Even if I only see Maude two days out of seven, those packages need to be delivered by somebody, right sir?"

EXACTLY.

"Not a job for everyone, it is."

INDEED NOT.

"Takes a certain type. A readiness to make sacrifices. The young 'uns don't always realise, but I always say, you don't have the job, the-"

THE JOB HAS YOU. WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER, LESLIE.

"Guess so, sir."

DURING THIS RECENT… EXPERIENCE… I HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO CARRY OUT SAID DUTIES, TO DISASTROUS CONSEQUENCES.

"Oh dear."

YES. AND NOW, RESTORED TO FORM, I SUPPOSE I NEED TO REAFFIRM MY STANCE.

"Sir?" Leslie frowned.

YOU COULD CALL IT A TEST. TO SEE IF I STILL… IF I AGAIN… TO SEE.

"I'm not sure I understand this bit, sir."

I HARDLY UNDERSTAND IT MYSELF.

They stood in silence for a while.

"Look, sir." Leslie said suddenly, pointing. "There's a cat on the highway, there."

I KNOW.

"Scrappy little thing. Looks like it has nobody to look after it."

NO, NOBODY.

"Maude's allergic, sadly, or I'd be rescuing strays left and right. They're sweet things, cats."

...INDEED.

"Hope the little tyke is careful over there. The trucks are murderous around these parts." Leslie went quiet for just a moment.

Shuddered.

"If they'll not look out proper for fully-grown humans, they'll not look out for a little kitten."

UNLIKELY.

"Oh, there's one- it's coming up quick, will it- OI! STOP!" Leslie waved, gesticulating for the truck to stop before they hit the poor thing.

The truck didn't stop.

"Oh, oh dear, he's not slowing, sir. And the kitten's just sitting there, oh dear oh dear-"

THIS IS IT.

"What do you-"

THIS IS HOW THINGS WERE MEANT TO BE. IN THE OTHER WORLD JUST AS MUCH AS HERE. THIS IS HER FATE.

AND... THIS IS MY DUTY.

Leslie looked at him in horror.

(He knew the stranger for who - what - he was, of course. He'd know him anytime and anyplace.

He'd merely been following what he'd assumed to be the most polite course of action, carefully ignoring the Anthropomorphic Personification Of Death in the room.)

"You wouldn't." He said, shaking his head. "Sir, you wouldn't."

IT'S THE WAY OF THINGS.

"A sweet little kitten?"

CATS DIE, JUST LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE.

Leslie glanced over. At the dirty little scrap of a kitten, cold and hungry and alone, frozen in the middle of playing with an old stick, the truck's wheels only a yard or two away.

"Must this one?" He pleaded quietly.

YES. Came the answer, inevitable and cold.

And still, time was not progressing.

Death's skull was bowed under his hood.

...I THINK.

The bones of his hands were shaking.

…….I DON'T KNOW.

"There's some things, sir," Leslie said shakily, thinking of Maude and the resignation letter that was waiting in his desk for the day she would come up to him and say  _ "Leslie, it worked, I'm finally pregnant, we're going to have a baby". _

  
  


"There's some things that take precedent over duty."

  
  


Death looked at him, with empty eyesockets that held entirely too much  _ life _ to be merely a mask an existential concept wore.

Time resumed, and Leslie staggered back from the wave of air the truck displaced.

  
  
  


Death was no longer standing beside him… except that he still was.

And always, always would be.

"Oh God." Leslie said softly, taking an aborted step forward, arm extended as if to touch the truck, stop it,  _ too late, oh, the poor little thing… _

The truck moved past.

  
  
  


HELLO THERE, MORTIS.

Death stood in the safety of the other lane, and cradled in his bony hands was a kitten he looked at with all the love in the universe, and which was perfectly safe and unharmed.

YOU DON'T KNOW ME YET, I'M AFRAID, BUT MY NAME IS DEATH. OR AZRAEL. IT DOESN'T REALLY MATTER. I WILL CARE FOR YOU FROM NOW ON.

Petting its little head with such gentleness, letting it lean into the touch.

YOU'LL NEVER WANT FOR ANYTHING WHILE YOU'RE WITH ME, MY DARLING, I PROMISE. YOU'LL HAVE THE BEST OF CAT FOODS, AND WARM BLANKETS AND A LAP TO CURL UP IN, AND A CAT TREE. I'LL BUILD YOU A HOUSE AT THE EDGE OF THE UNIVERSE, WOULD YOU LIKE THAT? A GARDEN, MAYBE. 

The kitten purred, so loudly and happily that Leslie could hear it even from where he stood.

AND I WILL INVITE MY THREE FRIENDS TO STAY WITH US. THEY'LL LOVE YOU, MORTIS, I'M SURE.

Leslie smiled quietly to himself, slowly heading back to his delivery van.

His job here was done.

(There was a small envelope with instructions on the dashboard, sending him to this precise location at this precise time, signed A. L. Mighty, and no matter how hard you tried, you would never be able to trace which customer it had come from.)

AND, NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS, WE'LL STAY WITH EACH OTHER. Death promised solemnly, letting MORTIS climb onto his shoulder.

BECAUSE I'VE NOT FORGOTTEN TO CARE, MORTIS.

AND I SHAN'T FORGET AGAIN.

**Mew.** Said MORTIS, the cat who was Death's Companion now, and therefore  _ More _ than merely a kitten.

She sounded very happy, in the way a pet only sounded after being  _ reunited _ with its master after a period of separation.

(The Esteemed Reader might like to know that caught between her claws were, oddly enough, threads of a badly-knitted shroud; and that God would  _ never _ pull asunder that which loved each other so fondly and earnestly.)

* * *

"So." Crowley said, slowly.

"So." The Almighty agreed, dipping another piece of naan in Her curry.

"You mean to tell me. That. That love is."

"A universal constant that transcends realities and remains ever faithful and unchangeable?" She popped the piece into Her mouth. "Oh, absolutely, yes."

"Ah." Said Crowley.

And then, complaining, "well, HOW was I supposed to figure  _ that  _ out, then? All the evidence pointed to the contrary!"

God shot him a terribly unimpressed look, and, still chewing, scrunched up Her face in a way that very clearly said  _ "DID it, though?" _

"For instance… like… uh…"

"Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer?" God suggested wryly. "Love-on-first-sight Anathema and Newton? Those two?"

"Errrngh." Crowley said.

"And that was just the  _ most _ obvious. The darling Hellhound, still loving and protecting my grandson Adam? Or, for that matter, the Dowling boy, still  _ devoted _ to you."

"Ngksk."

"I was  _ actively _ giving you hints at some points!"

(And as She said that, Her face changed, and suddenly there was the woman with dangly earrings from the cafe, holding the gossip magazine in Her hands.)

"Honesther and Liara."

(Another change, the habit of a Silent Nun.)

"Mary and the Ethel girl."

(A librarian, holding a Wilde biography.)

"Even good old Oscar* and his Robbie Ross, dear Me boy, I wasn't exactly  _ subtle." _

*To this day, She was a bit cross with him for declining a place in Heaven on account of none of his friends being there - Hell got all the  _ good  _ ones, Damn them! - but it was terribly hard to stay angry at someone so  _ delightfully _ witty.

Crowley's mouth opened, closed; then repeated the action a good few times.

"But." He finally forced out. "Shadwell and Tracy…"

"Married before the year is out." God smiled a fond, proud smile. "He'll get her a ring with a moonstone, to match her eyes, and inscribe it with fortune spells; and she will rant and rave and wear it always."

Crowley closed his mouth again.

Thought hard.

"AHA!" He exclaimed. "Beelzebub and Gabriel! They were, and I shudder to say this,  _ dating _ in the other world. My versions would  _ never." _

God didn't answer, but the way She wasn't answering was strangely verbose.

"Oh no." Crowley said.

"I'm afraid so..."

"Oh  _ yuck." _

"It's not yet quite like that between them, of course. But… the potential is there."

"Oh  _ EW!" _

God semi-compassionately patted Crowley on the shoulder while he was loudly gagging.

"My point is," She concluded. "What I was  _ trying _ to get you to realise is more along the lines of, no matter if I had made things  _ differently, _ matters like love would remain the same. Also,  _ he loves you, you idiot _ . That's all. Glad that you got all the loving-humanity bits from it, too, definitely go and hug young Warlock, but… it wasn't really the point."

Crowley mulled that over.

"But… the way he talked about Crawly…"

God's smile turned, just for a moment, terribly sad. "They're frightfully good actors, the both of them. They'll realise, eventually, don't worry. They love each other, after all."

Crowley bit his lip.

"What if you got it  _ wrong _ though?" He fretted.

"...child," She deadpanned, "think about who you are talking to."

"Well, you're not infallible!" Crowley snapped. "And if Death oughtn't lecture on love, then  _ neither should you." _

God stopped smiling.

"That's fair," She said, evenly. "I have been… worse than absent. You have no reason to believe or trust me when I say Aziraphale loves you with all his heart and all his immortal soul, in every possible iteration of you two."

The smile slowly crept back on Her face.

"But it  _ is _ the truth. And I think  _ he _ is about to prove it to you."

And God's eyes slid over to something just over his shoulder, enigmatic smile widening  _ just so. _

Crowley turned.

And there stood Aziraphale.

  
  
  


The distance between St James's and the bookshop wasn't  _ much, _ per se; but from the personal experience of having raced from one to the other past-smiting in opposite-world, Crowley knew it wasn't exactly  _ negligible, _ either.

And, judging from the way Aziraphale looked - hair and clothes in disarray and damp with sweat, eyes wild and blinking too quickly, and breathing as if he'd left his lungs somewhere around Trafalgar Square - Crowley wasn't the only idiot celestial who forgot about their wings entirely while in the grip of pure panic.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, and his voice cracked just as badly as when he'd sat blackout drunk in a bar and first saw his angel's discorporated soul.

"C-Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped, and we can't tell you who ultimately moved first; only that they were in each other's arms at the end of it, hug tight and desperate.

"Oh, good Heavens, my dear boy," Aziraphale was babbling against his shoulder, so close to tears he was very much intruding in their personal space. "Crowley, oh Crowley, what were you  _ thinking!?" _

(He hadn't been, of course. But Aziraphale was still hugging him rather than strangling him, so… He'd take it, for now.)

"You you disappear into thin air for a week -  _ I was ever so worried, oh, Crowley _ \- and then I get your call, and you sound- I assumed the worst, Crowley, my dear Crowley, I thought you- I thought…"

_ My dear Crowley. _ The sound of it alone made Crowley weak in the knees, and he leaned on Aziraphale, buried his nose in hair that was fluffy and soft, without even a drop of product.

"M'fine." He muttered helplessly. "Angel, I'm alright."

A sniffle against his shoulder.

"Are… are you crying?" Crowley weakly attempted to rub Aziraphale's back. "Please don't, I'm okay, Aziraphale, I'm okay."

"Yes. Well. I didn't know that, now, did I!?" Aziraphale sounded so prim and put-upon, even through his tears, and it was so perfectly darling Crowley thought his heart would melt.

Aziraphale pulled back, and Crowley bit his tongue hard to not blurt out  _ nowaitstay. _

"Crowley, where  _ were _ you!?"

"Ngk." How to answer that? How to even begin?

But it didn't matter, since Aziraphale was already on the next thought, crossing his arms with the sweetest little huff.*

*How had he ever managed to survive without all these little Aziraphalisms? They were the only manna in the wilderness, and Crowley was starved for them.

"And by the by, I'm quite cross with you, saying  _ such things _ over the telephone willy-nilly, worrying me something dreadful!" A little pursing of the lips. Crowley thought about how it felt to kiss those lips, and then pointedly thought of anything else. "I don't appreciate being confessed to in such a manner, really I don't!"

_ Right. Yeah. Here we go. Wish he'd have had some time to cool down, but he had to run here and have it out immediately, didn't he, my silly angel. _

"Hrrngh. Yeah. About. That." Crowley fidgeted. "Look, I'm sorry. For. Ngk. Feelings. Mine. It doesn't have to, y'know,  _ change _ anything, and, and-"

"Not change anything!?" Aziraphale repeated, incredulous.  _ "Crowley! _ My dear, it changes everything!"

Crowley felt his heart sink and sink and sink until it came to rest at the bottom of the metaphorical Mariana Trench, with little allegory fish and anaphora octopi nibbling away at it.

He shot a little glare over his shoulder at God, who was watching them while stuffing another handful of naan bread into Her mouth, obviously delighted by the proceedings.

_ He feels the same, yeah sure. Good one. Hah hah, look at me laugh. _

"Right." One thing, at least, Notziraphale had been right about. It hurt just a little less if you'd already known what was coming. "Look, Aziraphale, I'll never mention it again, yeah? I'll go on as normal. I've pretended for centuries, you won't even know the difference honestly, just, just let us stay friends,  _ please-" _

"Oh, my dear, no." Aziraphale said, softly, and for some reason that was a lot more terrifying than any sort of fury.

Crowley braced himself.

"Mention it again, please do. A thousand times, preferably."

"...ngah?" Crowley said.

"You really didn't know?" Aziraphale frowned. "And I thought I was being clumsy and crass about it. Crowley, my dearest demon…"

A hand, soft, manicured, undoubtedly Aziraphale's, took one of Crowley's fidgeting ones.

"It's entirely mutual. Of course it is."

Crowley blinked.

"No, look, Aziraphale," he said, very patiently. "When I say  _ I love you, _ I really  _ do _ mean-"*

*Demonsplaining one's own love like this is spectacularly ill-advised, and the author very firmly counsels against it.

Aziraphale gasped, the delighted, breathless little sound he only awarded a rare new book or the first sight of the arriving dessert platter.

"Say it again!" He interrupted with some urgency. "Please."

"...I love you." Crowley said, because when had he ever been able to say no to him, and Aziraphale  _ shuddered, _ the single most pleased smile on his face.

"And I you." He responded, eyes warm and as vast as the sky.

_ Impossible. Utterly impossible. _

_ And yet… _

"Prove it," Crowley said breathlessly.

It was the right thing to say.

Aziraphale's eyes gleamed with the issued challenge, and a moment later they were kissing.

  
  
  


The world went bright and colourful and fuzzy at the edges for just a second, and Crowley felt like he was on fire in the best of ways, burning like a twin star in orbit around Aziraphale.

_ I was a fool, thinking I knew how this felt. _ Crowley realised.  _ It's not like the other one at all. It's worlds better. _

  
  
  


They parted.

Just looked each other in the eyes for a moment.*

*Crowley's sunglasses were notably absent, since eyewear happens to be rather impractical when kissing, and Crowley had set priorities.

"I was stuck in another reality," Crowley blurted out, braincell-(yes, singular)-to-mouth filter deactivated entirely by the kissing. "And other-you was strange and angry and I need to go hug Warlock or he'd end the world if he could and  _ I missed you so much, _ can we kiss again?"

Aziraphale blinked.

And smiled, warm and kind and loving.

"It appears like we have much to talk about, Crowley." He leaned in, and pecked Crowley on the cheek. It was chaste and sweet and just a hint old-fashioned, and everything,  _ everything _ Crowley loved. "Lunch? The Ritz? And we may go see our godson after. What do you say?"

"Hnnngyeaalright," was what Crowley said.

Aziraphale held out his arm, and Crowley linked it with his own.

And so they left the Garden - well, the park - and neither of them spared even a glance for the woman on the bench, a plate of curry in Her lap, softly singing  _ An Ordinary Couple _ to Herself and smiling the single most enigmatic smile you'd ever seen on a human-presenting entity.

And that was just the way She wanted it.

Who needed recognition, after all, if there was a happy ending to be had instead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That conversation between Leslie and Death is now among my favourite scenes I've ever written, not gonna lie... it ate up a lot of time I maybe should've used to, uh, actually write an epilogue with Warlock instead of just alluding to it, but ah well.  
> (Or mention Adam at all...)
> 
> Rest assured that *everybody* is happy in the end.  
> (I might write additional fics in this 'verse about the Not-Them, Warlock and Nanny meeting again, maybe Aziraphale and Crawly in normal!world. We'll see.)
> 
> But, for now, I hope you've enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it - and see you all again in Crawly's epilogue!  
> <3 <3 <3


	20. Epilogue: All'alba Vincerò

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, GOODNESS GRACIOUS it's done, I can't believe it. I wrote over a third of this bloody thing in a bloody WEEK, how!?
> 
> Anyway, here it is. The long-awaited Crawly-epilogue!
> 
> As always: enjoy!  
> <3

There was only one prophecy that, to this day, none of Adultery Pulsifer's descendants had been able to make any sense of.

It was scribbled on the inside cover in a different hand than his, and simply said "He is nott what He pretendeth to be".

Now, we would not presume to know the answer to the riddle that had countless scholars and Descendants absolutely stumped, of course.

However, if the Esteemed Reader is at all interested in our hypothesis…

We rather assume it refers to Crawly.

Because Notziraphale had been curiously apt in his paranoia: Crawly  _ was _ an excellent actor. Playing "Crowley" would've come more than easy to him, all things considered; after all, he had been playing the role of "Crawly" nearly all his existence.

The cruel, heartless demon Notziraphale knew was a mask.

One he had been wearing since the very Beginning...

* * *

_ It all began in the bloody Garden. _

_ He'd been minding his own damn business, really, the Serpent* had been. Slithering about, not really bothering anyone. Just trying to get away from Below for once. See the humans. See what all the fuss was going to be about. _

_ *The Serpent's name was Crawly, and he didn't think he was going to change it, ever. He felt it rather suited him, just squirming-at-your-feet-ish enough. _

_ He wasn't impressed. Silly little bipedals, always trying to climb out of the Garden, never satisfied with what they had, always wanting new things, bigger things, better things. They ought to learn to take what they were given and be happy with it, in the Serpent's opinion. _

_ He had just been planning to see what they were up to now, Ada and Steve, when a furious shout of alarm rang through the Dimensional Planes. _

_ The Serpent flinched, pulling his coils close around him, turned his head… _

_ And saw, silhouetted starkly against the rising sun, the Principality of the Eastern Gate, wings spread wide and glorious in a battle stance, flaming sword raised in clear threat. _

_ The Serpent, no matter how impossible it was in this form, blinked. _

_ He was... beautiful, this angel. _

_ Magnificent in his fury, incandescent with it, his glow putting the sun at his back to shame. _

_ The Serpent had never seen his like; and felt, then, something stirring in his snakeish chest that might have all the makings of a heart. _

_ He was halfway in love then, already; and by the time the Serpent was ripped from his stupor by a flaming sword embedding itself in a tree just left of one of his coils, he had fallen entirely. _

_ In love with this angel spewing vitriol at him - and in love with the dawn bathing his golden curls in light. _

_ It hurt to look straight at them, in both cases. _

_ And yet… _

_ And yet Crawly thought he would like to do nothing else in all the years of his existence. _

_ And he wanted this angel to look at HIM, too, wanted it with a desperation that startled him. He'd never felt its like before. _

_ Whatever he needed to do to be looked at again, he'd do it. _

_ Whatever it took. _

* * *

Crawly woke curled up in blankets on top of his bed, and he  _ hurt. _

He groaned, stretching unhappily and feeling something in his spine crack painfully.

He knew why he hated to sleep. Always made him feel like days had passed instead of hours, slipping away while he was bent in painful positions, slowly falling apart and being put back together the wrong way around.

(Besides, there were better things to do with his time. Especially when he wasn't alone under the covers.)

He rolled out of bed, and allowed himself five minutes for this ritual of his which he executed every morning, whether he had slept the night before, or not.

He went over to the window in the art room - facing east, as it did - and stared out at the beautiful, beautiful dawn.

(A related note, perhaps, on the room in question.

The art its walls were plastered with had one thing always in common that neither Notziraphale nor Crowley had ever picked up on - besides the general theme of fighting and blood and gore and death.

There was always a sun far in the background, only just creeping over the horizon.)

It always made him feel nostalgic; and he needed the time to slip his mask on, fasten it in place.

Get into character.

* * *

_ Crawly lay in the mud, staring up at the stars as if they could explain what had just happened to him. _

_ One moment, they'd been trying to kill each other, the way they did - anything to get Aziraphale to look at him, anything - and then. _

_ And then. _

_ And now, Aziraphale, sleeping or unconscious, head pillowed on Crawly's shoulder, body nearly crushing him under its glorious soft weight. _

_ He was dreaming. _

_ He had to be. _

_ This couldn't mean… it didn't mean. _

_ Not to Aziraphale at least, who had likely wanted a body to let out his aggressions on, and nothing more. _

_ It wasn't love on the angel's side, and Crawly pitied him a little bit, for missing out on the universe imploding and being created anew in the space of a kiss. _

_ But that was alright, Crawly thought, grinning quietly at the sky. _

_ He could be that body. Let Aziraphale have him, any which way; and, in some minuscule manner, have Aziraphale in return. _

_ As long as he was looking at him from time to time, he would play that role, too. It was hardly a stretch, after all. _

_ Crawly wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders, and pressed a furtive kiss to muddy curls. _

_ Only a few more hours until the dawn. _

_ Crawly had a feeling it would be one of the most beautiful ones he'd ever seen. _

* * *

Crawly sighed contentedly, letting the sunlight warm his skin, his joints, chasing the stiffness from his limbs and…

…and it wasn't doing much against the vague sense of foreboding that clung to him since waking.

Nothing concrete. The fading aftertaste of an already-forgotten bad dream, perhaps.

Dreadful feeling. Crawly shuddered with it.

* * *

_ Darkness. Sleepless rest. _

_ An endless voice murmuring soft words to him, about honesty and love and new beginnings as dawn approaches. _

_ And, finally, with the warm fondness of a mother: "time to wake up, my child. You have suffered greatly, playing a part neither of you want you to be. _

_ "And I promise: it will all be  _ different _ from now on." _

* * *

Crawly's phone pinged.

A mail from Aziraphale - he'd blocked his number, after all, no texts there - containing only an address. Subject line "need to talk to you"

Crawly frowned. Unusual. Their challenges and skirmishes usually came with wordier threats and all due posturing. There was  _ protocol _ to it, that Crawly was always careful to stick to, if just to avoid the strange way Aziraphale looked at him if he got it wrong.

_ He could… just ignore it. Couldn't he? _

_ Oh, who was he kidding. _

_ Obviously he couldn't. _

* * *

"Morning, garbage bin." Crawly threw himself into the front seat of the Volkswagen, kicking the door closed behind him. "You better start up first try, or it's the trash compactor for you, y'hear?"

The VW made an ugly sputtering sound, full of vitriol and…

...relief?

And then, it started up without even a hint of further fuss.

"What?" Crawly frowned.

Usually, there were a lot more creative insults required until the silly thing deigned to run.

Crawly shifted in his seat. Adjusted exactly right. That… had never happened before.

(The VW bus was something of a wicked little spitfire at the best of times, delighting in being contrary and playing pranks on him. Crawly, sensing a kindred spirit, gladly indulged it.

He was good at indulging, after all.)

"...yeah. Alright." He settled for uncertainly patting the dashboard. "Hate you too?"

The Volkswagen purred -  _ purred! _ \- and let itself be shifted into first gear without fuss.

Crawly carefully - carefully, carefully - pulled out into traffic, and began creeping along at a snail's pace.

A car behind him honked.

Crawly flipped them off without even looking, turning the gelbpunkt on. A bit of classical music wouldn't go amiss right now.

_ It calmed him, the soft orchestra, the beautiful voices, the stories about love and heartbreak. Humans rarely got anything right, but this… this was the exception. _

Turandot. His favourite.

_ He would never quite forgive Aziraphale for his opinions on Turandot. He'd gotten it all wrong. Hadn't understood a thing, and Crawly hadn't been able to explain, because if he'd said "look, Liu WINS, she gives her Prince everything he wants and gets to die in his arms as he mourns her, Satan, isn't that the dream?", well, that would've been TERRIBLY telling.  _

_ And this was a thing Aziraphale had always been very clear about not wanting to be told about... _

Except…

Crawly frowned.

Fast-forwarded a bit.

That… was off. Just slightly. He didn't think… he knew the text by heart, which scene was this? Something about the dawn. Love being born with the sun. Turandot addressing her father...

_ "Il suo nome è… Amor!" _

Crawly ejected the cassette. Frowned at it.

_ "...Queen?" _ He read out loud.

Hm. Sounded like one of those _ modern _ musicians Aziraphale forever brought cassettes of into the VW. It was all Jazz to him, really.

_ (If Crawly hadn't been so anxious already, he might've noted that the VW was rather a lot cleaner than he recalled it, the brownie tin empty, and a ghastly Knitted Thing spread over the backseat. _

_ As it was, however, he took absolutely no notice of any of this.)  _

Well.

Never one to inspect any part of the gift horse too closely, Crawly re-inserted the cassette and pressed play.

The opera was as beautiful as always.

* * *

Aziraphale was waiting for him at one of the standing tables belonging to the fast-food truck* that always stood just off the corner of Piccadilly, agitatedly tapping his fingers against the plastic surface.

_ *Ritzy's, best - and cheapest! - fish and chips in all of London! _

"Morning, angel." Crawly crawled, siding up behind him, delighting in the little flinch and-

And.

Hm. No. No, that was the wrong face Aziraphale was making there. All strange and lost and mixed feelings, until finally settling on…

"Oh, good  _ Lord." _ A grimace of disgust, flitting over Crawly's hair and, granted,  _ somewhat _ ratty clothes.*

*Look, it's all just stupid flesh shells anyway, so  _ who cares!? _ Crawly had no desire to emulate humans, and Aziraphale… Aziraphale had never seemed to mind the "costume"  _ overly _ much before, never mind if all his clothes looked as if he'd pulled them out of a bargain bin half a century ago.

Which, for the record, he had.

"Don't you  _ ever _ shower?" Aziraphale bit out. "Or change."

  
  
  


_ (And yet, an air of relief. As attractive as Crowley had been, perfectly styled in his sharp suits, he hadn't been… _

_ Well. The Esteemed Reader surely recalls the tender feelings we are alluding to.)  _

  
  
  


"Hey, if you'd told me that this was a  _ booty call, _ I might've made more of an... Effort." Crowley leered. "Not that I'm lacking in that department, anyway."

Aziraphale snorted darkly, but played along beautifully. "It  _ is _ your only redeeming feature."

"You know it." Crawly purred, putting a hand in inappropriate places as he moved to take his spot at the table opposite of Aziraphale.

_ Slap, squeeze, pinch, but never pet, never be gentle. That's important. He doesn't want gentleness from you. _

"So."

"So." Aziraphale echoed, but made no move of wanting to continue.

Crawly supposed he was expected to figure out the script for this one without any help, huh?

_ Right. Public meeting spot, no know exhibitionistic tendencies. This ISN'T protocol for a pure hook-up, never mind that he stopped with them after the whole Warlock business ended. So, business, not pleasure. Is this a trap? Is he- _

Crawly's thoughts screeched to a halt when he noticed the bottle of beer in Aziraphale's hand.

"Since when do you drink!?" He sneered.  _ It's unhealthy, stop it. _

"Since  _ none of your bloody business." _ Aziraphale shot back sharply.

"But you never used to-"

"Well, circumstances change, don't they!"

A pause, more thoughtful. "...people change."

Crawly swallowed.  _ What if I don't want you to change? _

"Turning a new leaf, Aziraphale? Why, I'm very nearly  _ proud _ of you." He pulled his grin wide.  _ Show your canines, no more, no less, enough to unsettle but not too much. _ "If you're looking for suggestions, I could recommend a few improving books - that is, if you can keep yourself from selling them for half a farthing long enough to read them…"

He trailed off. There was a very obvious bait dangling in front of Aziraphale's nose,  _ imply his education is sorely lacking, mock his business sense, threaten his shop, he's sure to snap, _ and he was categorically failing to rise to it.

Only staring into thin air.

_ And not looking at Crawly. Well, that wouldn't do. _

"What brought it on, then?" He asked, forcing nonchalance. "This little change of heart?"

_ Keep him talking. Figure out what he wants, give it to him. _

"I…" Aziraphale began haltingly. "I've had… a peculiar dream, I might call it. Certainly felt like one."

"Yeah?" Crawly was already mentally rifling through any and all dream-related insults and mockings he could think of. Low-hanging fruit, really, and Aziraphale delivering such a clear and easy cue, the conversation was proving already! "What about?"

"You."

The planned response lodged itself inside Crawly's throat and allowed only a gargle of consonants to pass.

"Only… not-you. Your opposite in every way."

_ What was this? Backhanded insults? Mind games? They'd agreed they would lay off the mind games years ago, what was this now!? _

"He was…" Aziraphale's expression acquired a quality Crawly had never seen on him before, and which prompted a wave of bitter jealousy to rise in him. Fond, and as close to soft as it got when Aziraphale was concerned.

"He was very kind, for a demon." A smile.  _ Satan, a smile! _ "Awkward, oh, terribly awkward; but charming nonetheless. Eager to please, sweet in his own way, and frankly  _ terrific _ company... he even dressed well. Said his name was Crowley."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it." Crawly spat, unreasonably angry. But what right did Aziraphale have, listing all these things Crawly wasn't -  _ that he thought Crawly wasn't - _ and speaking of this  _ Crowley _ as if… as if… "You had a wet dream. Congrats, you're a big angel boy now! Hope you remembered to change the sheets, at least."

Normally, Aziraphale would pull a disgusted grimace at such crude implications - but today, he only looked away, watching the street and seeing something - someone - entirely else.

"Entirely opposite, like a photo negative. He even…"

A little breath, shaking strangely.

"He even  _ loved _ me."

And Crawly wanted to shout "HAH!" and laugh, calling out the lie.

_ Wrong, Aziraphale, you blind old fool. Opposite in every way - every way but this one, it appears. _

(But maybe that was where he'd  _ wanted _ this game to go from the beginning; and if that was the case, then Crawly didn't think he wanted to play along.

Not this time.

Not this game.)

"Ngk." He forced out, gripping the beer bottle tight. "Good for him."

"Not really." A bitter smile without much humour. "Not in the grand scheme of things."

Crawly could tell he was expected to throw in a scathing, cruel remark here. Rip the mere  _ insinuation _ of love between them to shreds.

For the first time in… oh, must be centuries, the words wouldn't come.

"Anyway, he gave me some… advice. Which I think I shall take to heart."

Aziraphale sighed. He looked so  _ tired. _ Crawly didn't think he'd ever seen him so exhausted. Aziraphale wouldn't  _ let _ him see.

He stood up straight, drained his beer.

Ran one hand through his hair, smoothed down the lapels of his suit.

"Crowley-" he began, and then pulled a pained grimace. "Apologies.  _ Crawly. _ I am… well. Whatever manners of things have ever been between us, they have always been… enjoyable. Thank you for that much, I suppose."

"What-"

"Let me finish, demon."

_ Ah, the Interruption. Familiar waters again. _ Crowley relaxed, but only minimally.

"But I'm afraid this is where our…  _ association _ ends. There will be no more, for want of a better term,  _ fraternising - _ in every sense of the word."

"Fraternising." Crawly repeated numbly.

He couldn't feel his fingers, his legs, anymore. Couldn't feel anything.

"It's over. I am leaving London. You and I shan't see each other again."

The words took a moment to sink in…

...and when they did, Crawly's entire existence fell apart.

Aziraphale was going to  _ leave. _

There was nothing in the world Crawly feared half as much as  _ this,  _ and it hardly could've hurt less if Aziraphale had plunged a knife into his torso and opened him up from throat to groin.

He'd thought he might lose him before, and... never had he felt such terror.

* * *

_ Crawly pushed through the screaming crowd, heart hammering in his chest. _

_ He hadn't wanted this. Oh Satan, these stupid humans, always having to take everything to the extreme! _

_ Aziraphale had backed the French revolutionaries, so, naturally, Crawly had sided with the King and nobility. A suggestion here and there, a word in the right ear, enough to fulfil his quota, maybe embellish a little… but he hadn't wanted THIS! _

_ Madmen, all of them, leading the rebelling peasants to the slaughter like this; and among them… _

_ Aziraphale was led to the guillotine, head held high and proud, and Crawly shouldered another two jeering idiots out of the way, panic rising sharp and sour in the back of his throat, calling the angel's name but being swallowed by the roar of the crowd. _

_ Aziraphale knelt. _

_ Bent his head. _

_ (I didn't want this, Satan,  _ God, _ I didn't want this, idiot humans, never mind if he can just get another corporation I can't watch him die ohGodplease-) _

_ The dawnlight glinted off of the guillotine's blade, and Crawly spat a desperate curse, scrambling for a Hellish miracle that wouldn't come, why had he used up all his reserve last month, WHY- _

_ And then there was a flash of Divine Light, wings spreading wide; and Aziraphale was gone. _

_ Crawly spread his own wings, knocking the fool apelings around him off their feet, and followed. _

_ He caught up with Aziraphale within the walls of the Bastille, wrapping his celestial form around him and wrestling him to the earthly plane, coming to a stop as a tangle of ethereal and material limbs in a dark, dirty cell. _

_ "What the Heavens, Crawly!" Aziraphale spat, attempting to push him off, bristling with pure hatred. "No need to leave the party early for my sake! Don't you have more bloody slaughter to laugh at, you cruel, wretched, perverted-" _

_ Crawly kissed him. _

_ He  _ wanted _ to do a good many things. Hold Aziraphale close, only hold him, caress his neck that still so faithfully held his head on his shoulders, simply listen to his breathing for an eternity, crawl into his lap and live there forever. _

_ Tell him… _

_ Just tell him. _

_ But it wasn't allowed. _

_ It wasn't part of the game, of the play, of the role he had been assigned. _

_ Crawly turned the kiss into something more vicious - more allowed - very nearly mauling Aziraphale's lips until he tasted blood. _

_ (The taste made him gag, he didn't  _ want _ Aziraphale's life trickling out onto his tongue, but he gritted his teeth and persevered.) _

_ He was allowed this. No tenderness, never tenderness, but sex was allowed, and Crawly NEEDED to be close to Aziraphale now, whichever way he could. _

_ He pulled back. _

_ "Oh, you dirty creature of the gutter!" Aziraphale snarled. _

_ (Yes, angel, insult me more, I need to hear your voice, know that you are still alive, more, please!) _

_ "Here? Now!? While they're killing each other out there, have you no shame!? This gets you off, I suppose, no, I will NOT-" _

_ Crawly moved in a flash, grabbing the open manacles and clamping them shut around Aziraphale's wrists, praying to Satan that he would not notice the lack of supernatural reinforcement and break out of them. _

_ "You will." He said, forcing his voice low and dark to hide the desperate tremor in it. Distracting him further by digging one hand into his clothes and RIPPING. "I can't let you get away just like that." _

_ (There was no fear in his eyes, never fear… but a sort of unease Crawly could scarcely bear, and which he didn't want to see ever again.) _

_ Aziraphale protested no further then, let Crawly touch and bite and HAVE, and it was just barely enough, words always waiting just behind Crawly's lips, itching to be voiced. _

  
  
  


_ I can't let you die, Aziraphale. _

_ Can't let you go. _

_ I love you too much for it. _

* * *

"L-leaving m- London?"* Crawly couldn't breathe. He couldn't  _ breathe. _ "Where will you-"

_ *Leaving ME echoed in Crawly's head. _

"Oh, who knows." A vague little shrug, full of melancholy. "Europe? The States? It's a big universe, Crawly. I hear alpha centauri is beautiful around this time of year."

"Alpha centauri is a  _ dump!" _ Crawly snapped, voice too shrill in his ears. "Why- why would-"

"No more, Crawly." So, so tired. "Please, no more. It doesn't matter where I go, does it? As long as you don't follow."

He looked so sad, so miserable.  _ WHAT RIGHT DID HE HAVE TO SADNESS, WHEN HE WAS RIPPING CRAWLY'S HEART APART!? _

"It is done. Over and done with. I'm sure you'll be able to entertain yourself with whichever angel they send to replace me."

_ I don't want any other, Aziraphale! Only you, only ever you. _

"We're better off apart, I'm sorry, Crawly."

For a moment, just a moment, he looked as if he was going to lean in for a final kiss.

But no.

"...when I'm off in the stars, I shall think of you fondly."

And with those words, Aziraphale turned, and walked away.

  
  
  


This,  _ this _ was Crawly's ultimate nightmare.

_ You messed it up, idiot. Missed your cue, said the wrong line, fumbled your entry, and now look at you. _

_ It's lost you the part. You flunked the audition. Aziraphale is leaving, the crowd is booing, you broke character so it's only fitting to break your heart, too. _

_ He wants Crawly, stupid little snake. He always wanted Crawly; a challenge, a nemesis, a warm body in the night, uncomplicated hatred. _

_ You made it complicated. No idea how, but you DID, and now he's leaving. _

_ He has every right to leave. _

_ It's not what he signed up for, after all. _

Crawly was trembling, his bones were vibrating out of his skin, and _ he still couldn't breathe. _

It hurt,  _ oh Satan oh God oh Someone, _ what had he done wrong? Where had he messed up, what was the mistake that spelled his downfall now?

"Aziraphale!" He croaked. "Aziraphale, wait-"

_ He's not waiting. He's leaving. He's not even looking back at you, see how his shoulders shake, that's rage, he hates you but we knew that already, you're just not worth ignoring it anymore. _

How did he fix this?

(Because he had to fix this, he  _ had  _ to. Life without Aziraphale… well, it hardly bears thinking about.)

What was he supposed to say, what was the right cue, the segue into the usual sex scene? Satan, Crawly hated improv.

"Go, and… and. Ngk. I'll, I'll kill them all. Humans. Your replacement won't be able to stop me. I'll do it, Aziraphale. Don't think I won't!"

No reaction. Still leaving.

Crowley stumbled after him, raising his voice.

"Y-you can't just  _ leave,  _ Aziraphale! I, I won't  _ let _ you! I'll lock you up in a bunker deep underground, because… because you're  _ mine _ to, to do with as I please…"

Not right either.

"Fine then! Go! Go, see if I care! I don't even… don't even l-li- take your books and your money and  _ LEAVE, I DON'T CARE!" _

_ What else? What other angles could he be playing? The Challenge wasn't working, nor was the Perversion, and reverse psychology was already a stretch. How could he, how- _

_ This was impossible to figure out without instructions, without a script. _

_ Cards on the table, then. _

_ What did he have to lose, after all. _

  
  
  


"Angel, I'll do anything!" It broke out of Crawly almost against his volition, escaped through the cracks in the mask, rawer than he had ever intended.  _ "Please." _

A hesitation. Just an instant of it, but it was enough.

"W-whatever you want, I'll do it," Crawly babbled, near-hysterical.  _ Begged. _ "I'll be it. Anything! I thought I was… thought it  _ pleased _ you- but it's okay! I don't mind, really don't, I can change! I  _ will _ change, what do you want? Tell me! Do you, do you want this Crowley person?  _ You can have him. _ It's not a stretch, really, because I, I already-"

Crawly just about stopped himself there, clamped his mouth shut as hard as he could.

_ Too much too much too much you idiot… _

But Aziraphale had stopped in his tracks.

"You already?" He said, low and quiet, still with his back to Crawly.

_ Was this what he wanted? For Crawly to offer up his vulnerable heart, hold it out so Aziraphale could flay it slowly, look him in the eye and reject him once and for all, mocking his feelings all the while? _

_...well, fuck it. If the alternative was Aziraphale leaving, then, by Satan and all His little demonlings, LET HIM HAVE WHAT HE WANTS. _

Crawly swallowed.

Dropped to his knees. If Aziraphale wanted him utterly destroyed, then might as well literally prostrate himself at his feet.

_ "I already love you." _ He said, brokenly. "I look at you, and… I  _ feel _ the sun rise in my chest."

And for once, there was no calculation, no script, no mask.

Only Crawly, and Aziraphale standing there, silhouetted against the rising sun and ready to leave him forever.

Aziraphale turned.

He wasn't gloating.

Wasn't getting ready to flay, to mock, to hate.

He was white as a sheet, and looking at Crawly as if he'd never seen him before.

_ (And in a way, he hadn't.) _

There was something very lost in his expression… except that Crawly had found it, now, and it gave him something he'd been going without for all his life.

In that breathless moment, Crawly received his first morsel of  _ hope. _

We can't tell you who moved first. Logistics suggest it must have been Aziraphale, but who knows, really?

The only thing that mattered was that they held each other by the end, sitting on the pavement and embracing tight and desperate.

(They weren't even kissing; only pressing their foreheads against one another and trembling.)

_ "I'm sorry," _ Crawly whispered, pleaded.  _ "M'sorry I got it wrong. I'll try harder. I'll do better. I'll-" _

"Hush, Crawly. Hush." Aziraphale's eyes were full of tears.  _ He shouldn't be crying, he shouldn't, he never cries, did I make another mistake- _ "Don't. It's alright."

Crawly whimpered, and buried his face in Aziraphale's neck.

They sat together for awhile, and no human noticed anything out of the ordinary.

"I. I think." Aziraphale began hesitantly, after a while. "You and I… we've had each other all wrong, haven't we?"

"Ngrkm." Crawly said, one of his hands finding Aziraphale's and holding it tight, fingers threaded together, feeling his calluses against his palm.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand back.

"We ought to… talk. Probably."

Crawly nodded against his neck.

"...I'll get chips from Ritzy's, and we sit down in your bus?"

Crawly frowned. "Y'don't eat."

"No." Aziraphale gently, very gently, rested his free hand over Crawly's heart. It was the first gentle touch between them as far back as Crawly could remember. "But you do."

And when Crawly pulled back, looked at Aziraphale… he felt like they were seeing each other for the first time all over again.

"Don't go to alpha centauri." Crawly blurted out.

Aziraphale smirked, small and affectionate.

"I won't." He promised. "I've been told it's a dump, anyway."

And then they kissed.

It was by no means their first kiss, nor was it their last.

But the universe trembled and the sun rose and in the VW, a cassette played  _ Turandot, _ and…

  
  
  


...and a woman finished Her fish and chips with a smile on Her face; and then, She left the two of them to it.

She had the distinct feeling that they were going to be perfectly alright. That all of them, angels, demons, humans, were going to be alright.

After all, She thought, turning Her face towards the sun, love was forever victorious at the breaking of a new dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have... so many people to thank.  
> The wonderful BB mods, the incredible people in the server, all the new friends I made who cheered me on, my (incredible) pinch-hitter Ryoukon, my awesome brother and my darling Nugget, making sure I eat and drink and sleep during the home stretch.
> 
> And, of course, *you.* Thank you so much for reading, giving kudos, bookmarking, commenting. I'm infinitely grateful, and honestly a little amazed that you worked your way through all 102k of this! ;)
> 
> I will very likely write more Upside-Down'verse; and if anyone else wants to join me in this sandbox, PLEASE DO!  
> (And definitely tell me about it on my [Tumblr,](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wyvernquill) too!)
> 
> And here's the [Masterpost!](https://wyvernquill.tumblr.com/post/190882825986/title-the-whole-damned-world-seemed-upside)
> 
> Again, thank you! ^-^ <3 <3 <3
> 
> EDIT: the amazingfantasticawesome RosiePaw has written the sweetest, loveliest sequel for Notziraphale and Crawly, so if you're in the mood for seeing them attempting a functioning relationship and some degree of understanding at last, don't hesitate and click the "works inspired by this" link below!  
> (Thank you so much again Rosie, it's an incredible fic!)
> 
> EDIT 2: the lovely [mordellestories](http://mordellestories.tumblr.com) has drawn three breathtaking art pieces for this fic - of Death and MORTIS!!!, Notziraphale killing Crowley, and Crowley being picked up by the snowstorm - which you can find [here](https://wyvernquill.tumblr.com/post/643134709086535680/i-am-so-excited-right-now-you-cannot) and [here!](https://wyvernquill.tumblr.com/post/643227620249665536/this-art-only-ever-gets-better-and-this-is-why) Do check them out and give them a reblog and follow if you're so inclined! <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Just Deserts Are Not Enough (But They Don't Have to Be)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015002) by [RosiePaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw)




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